Finding the King of Iron Fists
by Texcatlipoka
Summary: The King of Iron Fist Tournament 6 begins. War and revenge are everywhere. Every fighter has a cause, but only one will see it through.
1. The upcoming King of Iron Fists

**So basically this is my interpretation of what happens at the King of Iron Fist 6. I'll start with a big sorry to everybody already reading, and just come on, about the fact that lots of my chapters have no breaks. I'm no computer genius and I don't know how that happened, because they're there when I write them. Anyway I'll fix that slowly. Hope you enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: Own nothing.**

* * *

"Wait a second. You got time. And I know you want to do something hasty, but I should tell you: I know almost the whole story. And another thing- I know who will win the King Of Iron Fist Tournament Six."

"Still listening? Good."

Jin Kazama goes and stands by the window overlooking the city; the rain lashes the pane inches from his face.

Brief silence.

"Guessing ahead yet? You're impatient. Maybe you have a right to be. But like I said, I know the winner of the King of Iron Fist. And I can tell you right now- it's not going to be me."

- _Two Months Earlier_

It was a cold day in a fur-flung corner of the world. A day of damp and minor discomfort; the sort people were used to. On a drab street, the only bus stop in service for several miles fronted a road of scattered tarmac. Gazing hopelessely back across the street was a building with all its windows blown out; the drizzle had turned it, and everything else, a sullen grey. There was no movement; the pavements were almost empty since the tanks had rolled by. No war here yet, but you could feel the expectancy- people would rather be indoors. Once every so many minutes or hours a single car would pass, its headlights flashing vainly in the greyness of the street.

Just then a man appeared, tall, black, with a frightening chin beard and darting eyes. Crossing the road with undue speed, he glanced into the shadow of the little broken bus shelter. A figure sat in the corner, hunched in a heavy coat- a foreigner, and not happy. A group of school kids stood nearby, chattering and rubbing cold hands- every now and then the foreigner would eye them distastefully. The tall man came and sat by him.

"Miguel Caballero Rojo?"

There was a time when meeting a stranger who knew his name would have set Miguel on edge. It didn't now.

"Have we met?"

"Bruce Irvin."

"I didn't ask you to introduce yourself, just if we had met. Now go away."

The first man was persistent; Miguel turned his face away, leaning on the cold glass. A poster by his ear read: "THE KING OF IRON FIST TOURNAMENT 6." He didn't look at it.

"I want to talk to you."

"Evidently."

"You should be more friendly. You would get more allies that way."

"If I were looking for allies, let me assure you I would not start here. Now _go away_."

The darting eyes flashed conspiratorially. At the other end of the shelter the school kids seemed to have noticed the conversation; their forced laughter at each other's jokes was suddenly intimidating. Bruce leaned forward. "What would you say if I were to tell you that I have information that could lead you secretly, confidentially, and directly, to Jin Kazama?"

That turned Miguel around. His head came up warily. "I'd pretend not to be interested."

"I thought you were after him."

"And I'll find him."

"You won't win the King of Iron Fist."

Miguel was indignant. His eyebrows went up as he noted the way the man's bulk pushed on the fabric of his clothing. "And I suppose you intend to?"

"I'll try. But the point is that this tournament attracts some of the greatest fighters from around the world. Paul Phoenix, Marshall Law, King; all are finalists from previous tournaments and all will be there. They say even Heihachi and Kazuya Mishima have entered. You don't stand a chance."

A loud chuckle from one of the schoolboys broke off their conversation; Miguel looked up in annoyance. "Damn kids," he said, settling down again. "Seems like every joke they make is directed at you."

"What do you say to the offer?" pressed Bruce, ignoring them.

"I say you're crazy." Miguel was getting frustrated now. Who was this Bruce, this guy off the street with the balls to just come right up to him and make propositions?

"Jin Kazama is the most wanted man in the world- and you say you can get me to him? I don't even know who the hell you are. And besides, even if you could do everything you say, what d'you get out of this?"

Bruce grinned. "Well I couldn't have found you unless I had somebody backing me up, now could I? You know I got contacts."

Miguel threw gestured to the bus stop. "A bus driver's got contacts! You could be the freakin' bus driver for all I know."

As if in response, a bus appeared. A grey and outdated vehicle, it fit into the hopelessness of the surroundings like a piece of a jigsaw. Miguel made a move to get on, but Bruce followed, still speaking:

"I have my number here. Call me if- when- you consider renegotiating. I promise, you _will_ need our help. If you're ever hoping to avenge your sister, that is."

Miguel turned, suspicious as ever, but it wasn't in him to question further. Since his sister's death he had become obsessive- what didn't help him wasn't important to him. It wasn't in him to press about this man's conspicuous sum of knowledge.

He looked at the little scrap of paper in Bruce's hand. "If I take this, you'll go away, right?"

"Right."

He snatched it. As he did so Bruce gave him a casual two-fingered salute, with a sneer on his face. He might have just cornered a wounded animal.

On the bus, Miguel toyed with the folded piece of paper. He had intended to drop it out the window; but now he thought he'd hold onto it. It was a curious move, considering he usually went out of his way to get involved with nothing and nobody. For some time now he'd been content to be the stranger, passing from town to town, crudely bettering himself in fistfights and pub brawls- the only training regime he'd ever known. With his sister's death he vowed not to be distracted, and that meant it didn't matter if one man knew who he was. He'd go ahead and fight regardless; and, somehow, he'd win the King of Iron Fist Tournament, get to Jin Kazama, and get answers, and revenge.

But then again, winning the tournament had become his whole life, its beginning and end with nothing outside of it. Secretly he knew that he would need any help he could get.

* * *

At the same time, thousands of miles away, the man called Eddy Gordo was walking into the top floor of the Zaibatsu building, dubbed The Gargoyle's peak. As ever, the carved, ancient-looking throne, coupled with the immense height, gave an individual an incredible feeling of power. From here, you could look down on the comings and goings of the world; even influence them, while the people went about their way, completely unaware of your existence. It was, Eddy thought, exactly how a gargoyle must feel, perched atop a huge cathedral.

Jin was standing looking out one of the vast windows. It was a habit of his, recently. Eddy went over to him. "The qualifying round, sir." He handed him a brown envelope. "Checked and re-checked, as ordered."

Jin didn't look around. "And the matches of Kazuya and Heihachi?"

"Appropriately changed."

"Good." Jin took the envelope and tossed it on a desk, without even opening it.

"Tell me about the war."

"It's all fine," Eddy replied. "A few engagements here and there, but nothing important enough to alert you about. No-one even thinks about challenging you anymore. Even G corporation activity is relatively low-"

"That's because its leader is in the tournament," said Jin instantly. "Kazuya… it must be him. Only he could orchestrate a resistance like this."

Eddy adjusted his sunglasses. He wanted to get this over with and get out. Being around Jin was somehow unnerving. The collar of his shirt itched him mercilessly, but he didn't want to scratch the place, for fear of looking nervous. Jin could read everything, every little move, and remember them. You could say he had a databank of other people's insecurities.

"Sir," Eddy ventured. "Why not just change the table so you can fight Kazuya now? I don't understand what you're waiting for."

"A fight at this stage would be a waste of time," Jin told him. "Kazuya- or Heihachi- would just disappear back into the world, licking their wounds, if I defeated them now. For this win to be final, it's got to be public."

"Is that… the whole truth?"

"More than enough truth for you. Now leave."

Seeing Eddy hang back, Jin finally turned from the window. "Did you want something else?"

Eddy shifted from one foot to another. Even for someone like him, being comfortable with Jin in the room was impossible. In the world he had been immersed in since coming under Jin's thumb, appearing in control was everything. Eddy had become embroiled in the world of illicit trade, of smuggling, of war crimes, of torture, theft, fraud, bribes, lies, and underhand dealings- it was no place to remind people you were human. But around Jin that sort of front was always impossible. You always felt… almost… as if there were a third person in the room; a silent observer behind Jin's dark, unreadable eyes.

Finally he spoke. "I have a request, sir. I'd like you to change one of the match-ups."

"Oh, really?" Jin was faintly interested; wearing one of those awful smirks, "Who's match? Yours?"

"No. Someone else's…"

_- Next day_

His opponent was about sixteen years old- maybe a little more, but if so he didn't look it. Yoshimitsu shook his head. He was surprised they had even let him enter- let him put himself through all this- the training, the lifestyle, the flight to chilly Hokkaido, then hours of driving to a remote village miles from anyone who gave a damn- just so he could be knocked out in the last stages of the qualifiers. It was true that every tournament attracted stronger fighters than before- but somehow it always attracted ever-weaker ones as well. And strength has limits. Stupidity, Yoshimitsu had long ago realised, doesn't.

Yoshimitsu finished adjusting his sheath. He'd decided he wouldn't use the sword in this round. In perfect honesty he was starting to feel a little sorry for this kid he was facing, who was looking to be as rich as a triple chocolate cheesecake, and twice as innocuous. Though clearly fit, he was slim in a way that most fighters weren't, and he had that unworldly, unsuspicious look so uncommon in people who beat others to pulp for a living. Could he possibly stand a chance against Yoshimitsu? The match looked like it was going to be a quick affair, literally a trip for the view. The ninja was a little unhappy at having made such a journey for this, but he wasn't one to complain about a stroke of luck- his place in the final was assured.

They were in a mountain village on the northern Isle of Japan- Hokkaido, where it was cold most of the year round, and the hills and slopes were high and steep even by Japanese standards. To the fighters' left, a cliff-face gave way into a fabulous criss-crossing of valleys, topped with mist. Just below them, at the base of the path, the village was nearly lifeless; because everyone had decided to come watch a fight. Even now the last few spectators were climbing up to join the semi-circle around the two contestants.

_Great_, Yoshimitsu thought, _looks like one side order of public humiliation for the kid. Guess it means he won't be doing this again_.

At that moment the 'judge' appeared. Yoshimitsu thought that was a rather grand term to be applied to an old man who'd been paid to carry a clipboard. And it wasn't even a hard job: in the King of Iron Fist there were no bouts, and no points. Matches could end in submission, but almost always ended in a knockout. Sometimes one fighter would pass out from sheer exhaustion. Regardless, the winner was rarely difficult to determine.

The judge, having manoeuvred himself to the front of the mob of eager spectators, proceeded to put on a pair of glasses very slowly. "Leo Kliesen?" he read, in English.

"Here, sir," said Yoshimitsu's opponent, looking surprisingly confident.

"And… and," the judge looked over the papers, muttering something inane about how difficult foreign names were to pronounce, even if they were Japanese. He looked up in confusion.

"Oh my God!" he exclaimed, at the sight of Yoshimitsu.

"Just Yoshimitsu, I'm afraid," said Yoshimitsu dryly. "But if God does show up, point him out, won't you?" He turned to Leo. "You ready to start?"

"Sure am!" Leo took a stance. Then he noted Yoshimitsu's swords, propped against the cliff face on their right. "You sure you don't wanna use those?" he asked. "I don't mind if you do… just don't kill me, alright!"

Yoshimitsu grinned. "Seriously," he said, "I have to say I don't think I'm gonna need them." He was also in a stance now.

Leo grinned back, not looking even remotely nervous. "Okay, think you can keep up?" he taunted, advancing.

"Sure of it." Yoshimitsu shot back, moving to within striking distance. They exchanged a few lightning jabs; Leo was faster than his opponent had thought. He said so.

"That's not even the half of it," Leo replied, circling. Yoshimitsu started circling in the opposite direction. For a few seconds they faced off, playing a game of footwork, both on the lookout for any opening in the other's stance.

Then Yoshimitsu attacked, launching a series of roundhouse kicks with frightening precision; but to his surprise, Leo blocked deftly and stepped back. His final kick hit mid-air. Seeing the opening, Leo rushed forward, catching Yoshimitsu with a series of snap punches. Suddenly Yoshimitsu was on the defensive. Seeing a knee come up, he sidestepped nimbly, but the attack never finalised- instead, Leo drove the lifted leg down into a fierce shin kick. Yoshimitsu staggered. Capitalising, Leo drove his palm hard into Yoshimitsu's gut, sending him sprawling.

For a second the ninja was almost in a state of shock. At the same time as his opinions about Leo had done a collective U-turn, he was angry with himself for getting so complacent over a match. Now his opponent would only be _more_ sure of himself. He staggered up. His left side was already beginning to swell from the gut punch.

"Nice moves," said the ninja.

"Thanks. You're not bad either." Leo started to move in again. "A little slow though… hey, just how old are you under that mask?"

In response, Yoshimitsu moved in again, attempting a backhanded fist; but Leo was too fast. His right arm came up to block and his other flashed out in a left hook before Yoshimitsu's blow had even connected. Yoshimitsu dodged by an inch. Now the right arm came back round. Another dodge. Punch after punch followed with impressive vitality, never letting up. The ninja, for all his reflexes, was struggling to keep up, and as he fell back a straight left glanced his jaw. Off-balance, he staggered and almost fell. Leo, attempting to capitalise once again, moved in with his gut blow.

Mistake. Yoshimitsu's experience had told him to expect it, and he threw himself left. Dirt flew into his face as he landed and rolled clear. But Leo moved in swiftly, and the knee came up again- Yoshimitsu, still fearful of this unknown stance, hesitated, and that was all the time it took for Leo to get in a series of body blows and once again send his opponent reeling.

"You're good," Yoshimitsu admitted, getting up for the second time. "You are good, I'll give you that. But you should take the chance to attack me while I'm down."

Leo grinned. "Right now, I'm not sure I need to."

Now it was Yoshimitsu's turn to smile. That was youth speaking. He remembered that feeling. Taking his stance again, he moved in more cautiously. "You _do_ need to," he assured him. "The fight's not even nearly done yet. You might have caught me out with that sneaky offensive stance, but that's nothing. Me, I got more tricks and surprises than a magician could keep up his sleeves."

He moved to within striking distance. "I haven't used any of those tricks yet. And one other thing- I got no qualms about attacking you while you're down. So let's see if you can take it!"

Yoshimitsu moved in, commencing with his familiar roundhouses, then flowing suddenly into a series of low, spinning kicks, shredding Leo's knees. The fight was getting him psyched up now. He wasn't sure if he was going to win anymore, which was a shame. But he was happy he'd got this opponent rather than some other. This fight would be… fun.

**End of Chapter 1**

**First chapter. Any good?**

**I'd love it if you could give me some idea of how long you like each chapter to be- I'm aiming at the moment for 2500 to 3000 words. D'you think more, or less? More importantly, which characters are you interested in seeing more of? All the ones in this chapter will be followed quite closely, plus Heihachi and Kazuya will both obviously get some 'screen time.' Next chapter will also see Christie. Any requests? Jin Kazama knows who will win the tournament, but I don't… yet. So who do you think should win?**

Note: The plotline about Yoshimitsu's cursed sword has been omitted for this story. I felt like it was kind of irrelevant next to the 'stop a war that is devastating the whole world' storyline.


	2. Opportunities

Back after a long break for obvious reasons. All reviews would be much appreciated… anyone?

**Disclaimer: Don't own Tekken. **

**--**

Christie didn't really mind being stared at. She was used to it by now; men had always stopped to look at her, ever since she could remember. She accepted it as just a natural part of who she was- a part of her that was very attractive.

Not that she craved it, though. No, she wasn't wearing those trim beach clothes as a move for attention. She was wearing them because she was smack in the centre of the sunny Philippines, staying in a fabulous hotel with access to a flawless beach- and in only hours, she faced her next opponent.

Jin Kazama himself.

Christie stepped into the hotel lobby. Above her a huge, elegant fan spun noiselessly, bathing the guests in much-needed coolness. Three men, standing by the stairs looking thoroughly uncomfortable in black suits, eyed her as she approached the reception desk. She ignored them.

"I'd like lunch brought up to my room," she said to the man behind the desk. "If you do that around here," she added, a touch ironically.

The man- a small Filipino guy with a broad face- looked impressed with her. "Of course, miss…"

"Monteiro."

"Miss Monteiro. I'd be truly delighted to help you in any way."

She grinned. "Thanks, but just the lunch will do fine."

She started for her room, thinking about her match.

That she should be facing Jin before even qualifying for the tournament proper was an unbelievable stroke of luck. Now she didn't have to focus on winning, which in reality had always been unlikely anyway. If Jin was there, she could question him, and she was sure that, by combination of feminine wiles and sheer brute force, she could get him to talk. To tell her the location of her grandfather… and Eddy.

Eddy and her grandfather were the two most important things to her in the world- really the only truly important things to her, except Capoeira, her favourite martial art. And even that she owed to her grandfather. The tournament was really only secondary: for a brief time, at least, Jin Kazama had become her sole aim in life. She hadn't doubted for a second that she wouldn't get to him, at least _find_ him, or considered that the possibility of his not talking even existed. It wasn't on the table. It wasn't happening.

And now she would speak to him tomorrow.

"Oh, and by the way miss, somebody wanted to see you." It was the desk clerk.

"Oh, really?" Christie didn't know anyone in the Philippines. "Who was it?"

"Those guys. Just over there." He pointed to the men in black suits. "Hey! Hey guys, this is Christie, this is who you wanted to see. She's right here."

The Filipino's tone, coupled with the suits, instantly put Christie on edge. No-one wore a suit in the Philippines out of choice. Which meant… business.

"Can I help you?" She inquired of the first man, who had stepped forward to act as spokesman.

The man looked at her emotionlessly. She could have been an expensive rug, and that annoyed her. Sure she was cute, but she wasn't an _ornament_. The man must have guessed by her body language that she didn't like his stare, but he made no attempt to cover it. Now she was sure. It was a business stare. What the hell could they want?

Suddenly the man dipped into his pocket and pulled out an envelope. The move was so abrupt that for a split second Christie thought he was going for a weapon. And the way he _wielded_ it at her…

Slowly she took the envelope from his hand, opened it, and came face to face with an intimidating, formally styled document. The man spoke up just as she started reading:

"This document is an official contract cementing the agreed change of plans for the final qualifying round of the tournament, involving you, Christie Monteiro. Your opponent is no longer Jin Kazama. Your new match will take place in Singapore; the opponent will be specified when you reach your destination."

For a few seconds she stared in complete disbelief.

"But you can't just change the league table!" she spluttered. "It's unfair, it's… it's blatant cheating! The match-ups are supposed to be random!"

"_Mostly_ random," he put in, as though this were an obvious correction. "You'll need to sign it."

"But this is ridiculous!" she cried, "This match is everything to me! You can't just- just take it away without explaining anything, without giving me a reason!"

"Sign here, please miss," said the man, unmoved, holding out a pen. Then he leaned forward suddenly, and his formal tone dropped, "miss, I'd take some advice and just do it. Trust me, things work more smoothly if we all just do as we're told, and you can't compete with the Mishima Zaibatsu. So just say you'll sign."

She looked at him furiously. "What if I were to say something else, maybe like 'fuck you.'"

"You would be immediately disqualified from the tournament."

Christie was stunned. She felt physically sick in the midst of this new occurrence. She could barely concentrate. She had to keep looking at that gut-wrenching document in her hands to remind herself what was happening, but even then she couldn't believe it. Her mind kept saying it must be a trick- the world followed rules, natural _laws_; things didn't just suddenly and randomly change. Now they were. Finally it bled through that she had no choice. Angry and humiliated, she signed the piece of paper. She handed it back and watched it disappear into the envelope.

"I paid for this whole trip," she said, in hapless protest.

"The Zaibatsu will recompense you for any money lost," said the man swiftly and, without another word, turned on his heel and left, his goons close behind.

--

Meanwhile, Leo was running out of options.

For the past twenty minutes he had proved himself to be both faster and more technical than his opponent, but now the ninja's greater experience was only just beginning to truly show. For whereas Leo had pulled out every trick in the book to try and gain the upper hand- every stance, form and style he knew- none of them ever gave him so much as a temporary advantage. And once Yoshimitsu had seen the stance once or twice, he caught on to their workings uncannily fast and began to out-predict his younger opponent. Then the ninja would move in with a few of his own surprises- a flying somersault, a drop-to-ground, even such outrageously unlikely stunts as turning his back on an opponent in the middle of trading fists. However good his reflexes were, Leo could never hope to see these moves coming, and now he was seriously flagging.

Deciding to work Yoshimitsu' left shin, he moved in again, swiftly attacking with his Jin Ji stance, the left knee swinging up towards the chest. The ninja stepped back; Leo turned his attack into a swift crouching kick. But Yoshimitsu saw it! Leaping clear of the attack, Leo staggered as Yoshimitsu landed a series of combination blows. Sidestepping a straight kick, Leo retaliated with a swift toe-kick to the kneecap, then followed through with a straight elbow carrying all his weight behind it. Yoshimitsu gasped against the toe-kick and… sat down! Leo's elbow found mid-air, and for a millisecond all he could do was stare blankly forward in total surprise. That was more than enough time for Yoshimitsu to front roll into a savage upward kick, catching Leo squarely in the chin, so that he crumpled like a piece of paper.

Leo swore and staggered up. A little blood was running down from his split lip. He looked at the ninja angrily. Yoshimitsu stared back, seeming only mildly disappointed. "Man, what's happened?" he asked. "You were moving so fast a second ago."

"I just need a second to get my breath back," snapped Leo. "Then I'll be all over you!"

"Well, let's go then!"

Leo was young, but he was sharp enough to know that he was too beaten up to keep going for much longer. Maybe at the beginning he could have outlasted this older opponent, but with the pounding he'd taken there was no hope of that now. He decided he'd have to risk an all-or-nothing attack. If he couldn't deal a match-closing blow now, it was all over.

Taking a deep breath, he prepared himself for the fact that this could end very painfully.

Then he charged! Feinting left, Leo sidestepped an inept return from Yoshimitsu, then stepped in close, landing a fierce one-two punch, then leapt into a roundhouse kick sending his opponent reeling. Following through, he ducked low, hugging the ground in his Fo Bu stance, then came up in a savage uppercut to the chin. Yoshimitsu hit the ground hard.

Only now did Leo feel fatigue come into play. As he returned to a standing position his stance was sloppy, and the ninja saw it immediately and recovered much faster than Leo had expected; suddenly he was facing another dizzying combo attack, taking a series of jabs to the gut with seemingly impossible speed as the ninja spun like a top. But rather than drop back into a defensive stance, Leo pressed forward. Ignoring the pain, he threw one, then two, then three kicks. Yoshimitsu dropped back. Following in, Leo got in a series of textbook fist combinations, followed by a roundhouse kick straight to the chest. Yoshimitsu flew backwards- Leo could feel his opponent's ribs compress.

Then, for just a split second, he had a sensation of total clarity of thought. Totally calm, he found himself reading and judging every angle and opening with machine-like efficiency. He considered dropping back- he was, after all, off-balance from his attacks- but realised that such a move would ultimately lose him the match. He needed a finisher.

Before Yohsimitsu had even hit the ground, Leo was right over him, aiming in with a series of savage punt-kicks against his floored opponent's head. Yoshimitsu rolled away desperately. One kick barely missed. Another glancing blow. So close! Leo could feel himself getting nearer with every try.

Then, suddenly, he was Leo was on the ground.

He had felt the contact with Yoshimitsu's raised shoulder right up his leg; but then he saw that the ninja had deliberately taken the blow, giving him the opportunity to wrap an arm around his leg and easily spin his opponent to the ground. Leo was too beaten up to recover quickly- Yoshimitsu leapt on his back and dragged him up in an arm lock.

Leo knew he was beaten now, and he wasn't thinking about the match. He was angry with himself for abandoning his balance for a desperate attack. Bitter that he hadn't been able to realise Yoshimitsu's strategies earlier. At that moment Yoshimitsu leapt upward, gaining incredible height considering he was carrying Leo, then flipped them both over in mid-air. Leo had only a second to be amazed at how his opponent had pulled off such a superhuman feat before he slammed straight into the hard earth.

The pain was too much now and he blacked out.

--

Later, Yoshimitsu found Leo sitting on a wall in the village. His head was down and he barely moved. Yoshimitsu was surprised to find that rather than sympathy, he felt only respect for this young fighter. His final attack- the Tornado Drop - had put people in hospital before. Only a real fighter could have recovered so quickly.

He felt the need to congratulate him.

"Nice fight. You know, you've got amazing speed."

"Thanks," said Leo, accepting the handshake. "You were amazing too. You deserved to win. How did you come up with so many techniques?"

"Well," said Yoshimitsu, sitting down next to Leo, "Most of them are just deviations of the same core group of moves. Not much different to how you learnt really, just that you were a little…" he ventured to offer constructive criticism. "A little formulaic."

"Formulaic?" said Leo.

"Yeah." Happy he was getting through, Yoshimitsu continued. "Your moves are all good- really good, actually. You've got natural style. But your attacks were kinda obvious. I mean, I could see you were just repeating manoeuvres and combinations you'd learnt in a dojo or something. So every time you moved in, I just asked myself 'If I'd taught him, what would I tell him to do?' and almost every time you did what I expected. Sometimes you gotta mix up your combos, do some unexpected things, take some big chances."

"Really?" Leo frowned. "I never really thought about a fight that way before. Guess you're right though."

He stood up to go. "Thanks anyway. For the advice, not kicking my ass."

Yoshimitsu grinned. "Back at ya' for the great fight. Gee, you're taking this quite well. Aren't you upset you got knocked out the tournament? I've seen fighters break down over this before."

"Yeah, I guess so," Leo admitted, shifting his feet. "Truth is, I'm not really sure what I hoped to get out of this tournament anyway. I was kinda just looking for someone."

"You must have been after something. Who were you looking for?" The ninja couldn't help but be curious; and truth be told he was warming up to this kid. He was tough, could look after himself, but didn't have a chip on his shoulder- didn't feel like he had something to prove to more experienced fighters like himself.

"I had hoped to get close to Kazuya Mishima. You know him?"

"Know him?" Yoshimitsu felt his mood drop. Kazuya's name had that effect. "Leo, I've fought him before. Is that what you wanted, to fight him? If you did, you're lucky you got knocked out first. What could you possibly want with a psycho like him?"

Leo sat down on the wall again. His hair fell over his face, putting his eyes in shadow. Suddenly he looked very sad. Finally he said, "My mom is… was… a CEO in G Corporation. But ever since the war started, and G Corporation became the 'great world protector' and all that, things were different. She'd come home late, tired, stressed. And she just… didn't feel right. Instinctively, you know? You could see there was something wrong. Then one morning, she was murdered…"

"I'm sorry," said Yoshimitsu softly.

"It's ok," said Leo hastily, "We were never all so close, but it was a shock to the system. For a while I just couldn't believe it. Then the police went and dropped the investigation into her death, and I knew something was up. I knew it was Kazuya, because he's head of G Corporation now. He's the only one who would've had her killed and got away with it like it was nothing. I guess she was… meddling. So I entered the tournament thinking, maybe- with luck- I could find him in the tournament. But looking back now I must've been crazy."

There was a long silence while the two fighters went over their thoughts. Then Yoshimitsu picked up his sword belt. "So what you gonna do now?" he asked.

Leo shrugged. "Guess I'll just try it some other way."

Yoshimitsu looked at him approvingly. "You're not going to give up on this, Leo, are you?"

"I can't; there's nothing else for me. I couldn't sleep at night knowing I'd let my mom's killer just walk. Even if I'm crazy to try."

"Got a plan?" Yoshimitsu was starting to walk away.

"I'll visit one of the G Corporation labs- they're everywhere in this part of the world- and see if I can maybe find Kazuya's whereabouts. I got passes."

Yoshimitsu stopped faster than a government check- he couldn't stop himself from being an opportunist, and now that side of him reared up in full costume. "You say you got passes?"

"Sure. From my mother."

The ninja grinned. Any doubt he'd had was gone. "You coming?" he asked suddenly.

Leo looked up from his lap. "Coming where? Whaddya mean?"

"To Tokyo," said Yoshimitsu. "With me. If you want Kazuya, he'll be on the mainland. No way in hell he got knocked out in the qualifiers. So unless you got a private helicopter parked round the other side of the valley, we've got a plane to catch."

--

End of Chapter 2 


	3. Sparring partner

**Whole chapter just for Miguel here. I hope everyone likes how I am making these characters out to be. Obviously some of them, especially Leo and Miguel, have very little back-story from the game itself, so I'm really developing them almost from scratch. **

Disclaimer: Don't own anything. By the way, isn't it weird how we always put 'disclaimer' before the disclaimer. Isn't it obvious what it is?

--

"How did the round go?"

"Fine," said Miguel tautly. "All fine. I'm through. I won."

"A hard fight?"

"Not bad. But he knew how to fall down."

Despite his characteristic offhandedness, Miguel was not as fine as he made out- he didn't look it either. The nameless opponent, to whom he was referring so casually, had just given him the hardest fight of his entire life. More than once he was sure he had lost, that he was finished. Even now some of the bruises were aching. And this was some nobody, not even a recognised name in the tournament! Miguel was starting to feel his lack of training like a raw wound. Reluctantly he put the mobile back to his ear.

"You still there, Bruce?"

"Still here."

"I would… I would like to take you up on the offer you made earlier. Truth is I could use a sparring partner."

There was something in Bruce's voice that suggested a mission accomplished. Miguel could almost see that suspicious looking smirk on the other end of the line as Bruce replied:

"Of course I can find you one, Miguel. Anything you want, as long as you agree to uphold your end of the bargain. Since you're through, and the final rounds are happening in Japan, I'll tell my contact to hook up with you there. There's a hotel called the Mishudo. Give the receptionist my name. He'll meet you there. Agreed?"

Miguel couldn't hold his temper. "Not agreed, dammit! I don't even know what 'my end of the bargain' is yet!"

At that moment a deafening explosion rocked the ground, taking Miguel completely by surprise. Swearing and swinging round in surprise, he saw a huge plume of dark smoke rising steadily from above the rooftops. People nearby stopped and stared; then carried on walking- they'd known it was only a matter of time. Several more explosions followed, painfully loud, and the streets gradually emptied, leaving Miguel standing alone, watching the smoke.

Cursing under his breath, Miguel put the receiver back to his ear.

"Bruce? Did you hear that? The explosion-"

"I heard it; get down there, get moving!" said Bruce, an edge of urgency in his voice. "Find out what's happening!"

"Are you crazy? I could be killed. Why should I…"

Miguel stopped. There was no one on the other end, only static. He could feel his temper growing, not as anger but more as a rush of exhilaration. He could still hear smaller explosions going off in the distance, intermingled with the crack of gunfire, and somewhere at the back of his mind his brain had determined there would be violence, and he felt himself being swamped by a power stronger than adrenaline, stronger than any drug. Without thinking, he took off running, towards the smoke.

--

The truth was that he didn't know what he was hoping to achieve by charging headlong into a war zone. He barely knew what he would do when he got there. All he knew was that where there was war, there was the Mishima Zaibatsu- and any connection to the Zaibatsu would, in time, lead him directly to Jin Kazama.

Rounding a corner, he almost ran straight into a small group of heavily armed soldiers blocking the street. They were telling civilians to "return to their homes," very politely, unthreateningly. But Miguel's eyes narrowed. He knew who they were.

Tekken Force!

He watched them for as long as he could without alerting their suspicions, then headed left down a narrow alley across the street, moving fast. He passed through another street, similarly blocked off, without stopping. Walking by, he caught glimpses of several low, flat, metallic buildings on the edge of town, from which the smoke was coming.

Bunkers.

Once he was back in the alleys he started to look around for a way through. It still didn't occur to him that he was risking his life for what could well be a complete waste of time; really he was barely thinking at all. He had instincts that had been well honed on the streets, where, without friends, living by chance was a necessity, a mode of existence. True he had never been homeless, but his self-imposed exile from his family had made him almost as good as that for some time.

Finally he found what he wanted. A small window, at pavement level, looked into a basement below. Miguel checked either end of the alley, then smashed the window, carefully clearing away most of the glass with his boot. Then he slipped his legs through the window and slid in neatly- his large frame just fit and he dropped into a large storage basement filled with shelves stacked with boxes. So far, so good. With any luck the building he was in would open out behind the troops guarding the streets. Then he could slip in and make his way to the bunkers. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that they were significant in some way. If a guard saw him, he'd make up some convincing lie, like pretending he was searching for a child or a wife, which would get him taken out of the restricted zone. Then he would simply walk away. No harm done.

That was, assuming they didn't shoot on sight.

The door out of the basement was locked, but he broke it in with his fists and made his way up to street level. He stopped, swiftly checked that the road was empty, then stepped out the house and started to walk hastily. Most of the gunfire had stopped now but he remained wary as ever, keeping close to the alleys on his right at all times. But he was also careful to walk far out enough onto the pavement to give the impression that he didn't mind being seen. That was a trick he'd learnt on the street- people were much more lenient if they didn't think you had anything to hide; and a person found hiding was always guilty.

Footsteps. Miguel froze for a second, listening, then leapt into the nearest alley. There were several trashcans and he hid behind them. The tramp of feet grew louder and, peeking from behind the bins, he saw a large block of troops marching in formation. At their head was a tall man, brown haired and with a facial scar, clearly an officer. He walked with the confident grace of a fighter. Miguel watched attentively, the seconds ticking off his hopes. Counting the soldiers in sight, he reached fifty and gave up. There were far more troops here than he had expected; far more than he could hope to bypass. With a silent curse he so he slipped down the back of the alley and into another street. He had a keen sense of direction and soon managed to find his way back to the street with the basement. Walking briskly, he cut down the alley, where a side door opened into the house.

He stopped.

The door had already been forced open. From the outside.

Suddenly what had looked like a harmless investigation seemed very dangerous indeed. Miguel managed to find a hiding place behind a skip (hiding spots were always abundant in alleys), and sat back on his haunches to consider the problem.

If they realised the window in the basement had been broken to allow entry, they could guess that there was someone sneaking around. The moment they recognised that, he ceased to be just some lost civilian and became a moving threat, a combatant. How would they react? He considered trying his luck by rushing into the house. He didn't, after all, know if there were even soldiers still in there. But if there were…

Trapped from in front and behind, Miguel could only wait feverishly; a decision that drew heavily on his none too bountiful reserves of patience. Ten minutes passed, then twenty, then thirty. Nothing. No change, except for the occasional crack of a gunshot, or the tramp of marching feet, and he got more restless with every minute. At any moment he expected a gun to be shoved into his face, and to be marched from his hiding-place, to be put at the mercy of officers like that scarred one he had seen earlier.

_That scarred one_. He started thinking about him. He had seemed somehow familiar. He had a touch of the streetwise about him; though maybe that was just the result of being a clearly veteran fighter. To be good at fighting, a certain amount of sensitivity to the street- an understanding of its cogs and gears, how things happened- was a necessity. Every fighter had it, and every fighter could see it in others. It was a shared piece of knowledge reserved only for the tested amongst them. Still, that wasn't it…

At that moment a group of four troops appeared from the doorway. For a moment Miguel thought he'd been discovered; but then, mercifully, they turned the other way and headed back for the street. Smiling coolly, Miguel stood, brushed down his clothes and entered the house, making his way quickly down the stairs to the basement.

--

Miguel had barely set foot on the first step when he realised he'd made a mistake.

There were still people in the basement.

For a second he considered turning back; but the thought of returning to sit behind that skip, waiting to be caught, was unbearable. He pressed forward. The stair followed down a little way, then turned at ninety degrees to the right, leading down into the basement. At the curve of the stairs he stopped and peeked out from the semi-darkness. From where he was, he could just see the legs of two Tekken troops. They were speaking, and he could hear them clearly:

"So is this another dummy safe house or isn't it? How can it not be obvious which it is?"

Miguel recognised this voice instantly as the officer's he had seen earlier. A shiver passed through him; it seemed like they were being guided together. He wondered whether God intended this as a gift or a curse.

"Well, sir, the _equipment_ here seems to be genuine." This was the other man. "Genuine medical technology, anyway. Real syringes, sterilised needles, antibiotics and so on. But whether the stem cell research- or even a fraction of it- is here is not immediately obvious. Wherever it's stored, there's no guarantee its position is coded. It could take hours to search all these boxes."

"Well, I guess we'd better get started then. I'll call in help from the bunkers. It's not like they're going to find anything there. Nothing new, anyway. What d'you think, corporal? Two months of planning this operation, and we come away with a few standard convention labs and one old man."

"There are the weapon stores."

"Don't remind me about the weapon stores. If you gave me enough weapons to fill a football stadium our numbers would still be too few to make use of them."

Miguel was, by now, only half-listening, busily rethinking all he had just heard. Too few hands for the weapons? A desperate, long-prepared raid, for the sake of some vaguely specified prototype research? Whatever the uniform, it was clear these people weren't working for the Zaibatsu.

He was snapped out of his reverie by the sound of movement. Sitting up, he flexed his muscles in readiness. Zaibatsu or not, he needed to get out before six or seven troopers, on their way to sort out the basement, found him hiding on the stairs. As he heard the first booted foot touch the step his body coiled like a spring, and he waited, focusing himself, counting the steps.

Fifth step, sixth step, seventh. How many steps had there been exactly? Reason told him to panic but he stayed calm.

Tenth step, eleventh, twelfth. He could hear their breathing now. Thirteenth, fourteenth, and…

He sprung forward! The man in front was out-cold before he knew what had happened; Miguel's boot connected with his head with terrific force, sending him crashing back into the officer behind and tumbling them both back down the stairs.

Immediately Miguel was after them, bounding down the stairs and launching himself at the scarred officer, who had recovered with frightening speed. Miguel, out of the corner of his eye, saw him go for his hip; a gun came up with trained precision, aiming for Miguel's head. Somehow the Spaniard managed to knock the gun away with his forearm- as he did so a shot fired, the noise echoing in the enclosed space and leaving his ears ringing. Miguel feinted right, then turned his attack into a lightning left jab. His opponent staggered, recovered, then tore into Miguel with a series of punch-kick combos.

Suddenly he was fighting with every ounce of his skill. He saw a kick careering for his head and moved to block, but the officer somehow turned this attack into a low kick, which hit his shin directly in the nerve-centre, collapsing him to one knee in agony.

For the past few seconds Miguel had been acting entirely on instinct. The ringing in his ears, the shock of this one lieutenant's amazing martial arts skills; they had totally disoriented him. Finally he managed to come to grips with the fight, and, sensing an opening in the face of this savage attack, he threw himself into a flying tackle, taking the officer directly in the midriff and driving him back into one of the shelves in a savage display of strength. Boxes crashed to the ground in a flurry of noise and chaos. For a second Miguel completely lost contact with his enemy. There was so much noise now that he could barely think. Shouting from above, the rushing of feet, the ringing from the gunshot.-

Ringing?

The gun!

Staggering up, he looked around desperately for the pistol the officer had dropped. There it was, next to the unconscious soldier. In the corner of his eye Miguel saw the officer stand and make a leap for it. Again he rushed forward, aiming for the officer and shoulder-barging him against the wall, so that his fingertips just brushed the hilt of the pistol.

At that moment one, then two, then three Tekken troopers appeared from the stairs, weapons raised. Without thinking Miguel dived for the gun, sweeping it off the floor to point directly at the officer's head. His opponent froze.

For at least a minute there was total stillness, with every man in the room sizing up his opponent down the barrel of his gun, like so many hungry sharks. It seemed that at any moment some slip-up, a tiny movement, or word, would tip the whole situation overboard and turn the basement into a storm of shooting and noise and slaughter.

Finally Miguel dared to stand up, moving painfully slowly, assessing his options. Using the officer as a hostage, was there any chance he could force them to let him escape? No, no chance. And there wasn't a hope in hell of disarming all three men with assault rifles. He wondered if they would take a surrender.

"Wait a second!" Everyone jumped at the sound, swinging their guns at each other. It was the officer. "What do you want?" He said, calmly, in English.

Should he play this game? Miguel knew he had no other chance. "I'm looking for Jin Kazama," he replied.

"Jin Kazama?" The officer was surprised. "I'd be interested to know where he is myself. What's your name?"

"Miguel."

"I'm Lars."

Miguel chuckled humourlessly. "Well, _Lars_, since we're on first name terms now, how about you let me walk away and we forget about all of this. I'll even forgive you for trying to shoot me."

Taking an astonishing gambit, Miguel made for the stairs. Instantly there were three guns trained on him.

"Wait!" said Lars, for the second time. Not wanting to be shot, he stopped. It occurred to him to just make a desperate rush for the stairs; a part of him had accepted that he was already dead.

Lars signalled with his hand to the soldiers. To Miguel's disbelief, they lowered their weapons. Warily Miguel let the muzzle of the pistol drop.

"What do you want, then?"

Lars looked suddenly thoughtful. "You see," he said slowly, "I have just fought six rounds of qualifiers to get into the most prestigious martial arts tournament of all time. And I didn't fight one opponent who was even half as good as you just were."

Miguel shrugged in non-comprehension.

Lars seemed to have forgotten that, seconds ago, he'd been on the barrel end of Miguel's gun. He was confident and energetic. There was a look of success in his eyes that totally contrasted the situation, and put Miguel strangely at ease. Against his wishes, he felt the gun drop to his side.

"As I imagine you've guessed, I- we- are not part of the Mishima Zaibatsu forces," Lars explained. "At the start of the war a large portion of the Zaibatsu's elite Tekken Force, and I, their commanding officer, broke away. Now we fight against them."

"So what?"

Lars extended his arm, palm open. "I'll explain everything later. For now, Miguel, why not join us?"

Miguel threw his eyes over the guns, still loaded and ready, in the troops' hands. "Do I have any choice?"

"At least join. If you decide to desert later, there's nothing I can do about it. I'll explain details later. Just shake my hand."

"What's in it for me?" asked Miguel confrontationally.

"What do you want?"

"Training."

"D'you need it?"

"Yes."

"Fine," said Lars without thinking. "I'll train you myself. Just shake my hand."

Miguel rubbed his chin. Suddenly he was in a position he had never expected. He was being asked to become a soldier. That was something he had never intended. He had lived his life avoiding other people's conflicts, not least because he always had enough of his own. It was the same now- he wanted Jin, true, but only because of what he had done to his sister. His hatred had nothing to do with the war. But he was still suspicious of this man, this scarred officer called Lars, who had obviously seen so much death and trickery, and he didn't believe he was being given a choice.

Then there was the fight he'd just had. His shin still throbbed from the disguised kick that Leo had landed on him. That was a style that Miguel knew he needed to understand and, perhaps, adopt, if he wanted any chance of winning the tournament and getting to Jin. The thought of getting to Jin Kazama made even the most ludicrous plans acceptable to him, because he knew that at the moment he had found Jin, all his plans effectively ended. Maybe he'd live, maybe not, but whatever happened afterwards didn't matter. His sister would be avenged.

It was that thought that finally convinced him. He reached out and shook Lars' hand.

--

Because the competition was always so tight in its later stages, the qualifiers were very distinct from the tournament itself. Since its inception, thousands of fighters had entered the King of Iron Fist; but by the time of the tournament proper, held in Japan, there would never be more than about 20 or 25 contestants.

It was only at this point that the tournament became global news. Some people didn't know that qualifiers even occurred. But everyone knew about the King of Iron Fists. It was a spectacle like no other.

Of course, that was all very well for the fighters and the spectators. For the Zaibatsu, and for Japan, it meant months of planning- hiring cameramen, riot police, lawyers to protect the proceedings, accountants for stock keeping; endless extra medical teams to stand by in case of emergency; bodyguards; as well as a phalanx of ghost-writers to carefully script gracious, yet confident statements for competitors to give to the press. To allow for this, lenient deadlines for the tournament's 'official' commencement were put in place, and the qualifiers finished far too early.

So Leo and Yoshimitsu still had well over three weeks before round #1 when they arrived in Japan.

But they had no intention of laying idle.

--

**End of Chapter 3**


	4. Watching and Waiting

**I'd like to say thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far. Your support is really appreciated. **

**Disclaimer: Own nothing. **

--

After the rearranging of her match, Christie flew to Singapore, where she easily defeated her new opponent, and became one of 24 fighters to have earned a place in the official first round of the King of Iron Fist Tournament. She couldn't bring herself to feel pleased about it. Chances were, if the match hadn't been changed- hadn't granted her such a ludicrously easy opponent- she wouldn't even have stayed in the tournament at all.

After the qualifiers ended, she flew almost immediately to Tokyo, where disembarked to discover a changed city.

From the second she stepped off the plane she could feel eyes watching her. Customs took two and a half hours to wind her way through- too long by anyone's standards, considering she had so little luggage. A contact from the Zaibatsu met her in the airport and 'escorted' her to a hotel close to the centre of town. The cab sailed along in suspiciously little traffic, turning down roads that she remembered as being infuriatingly busy, but which were now almost empty of pedestrians. Looking out the back window, she noted that there were armed police on almost every street corner. Occasionally she would even see a stray dog- once an unheard of sight on the safe, sterilised streets of this, one of the world's most advanced cities. She had to remind herself that she was at the nerve centre of an organism conducting war across the entire globe. Even now the massive Mishima tower stared down at her over the rooftops. But the streets were nearly lifeless.

She spent the next three weeks being restless, spiteful and angry. She went to several nightclubs- places she had always found useful for releasing her tension- and found that if some of the life had left the streets, it was only during the day. Even though she could become the centre of attention almost at a whim, she never went home with anybody. That wasn't the aim of the game. She needed to remind herself that there were people in the world who didn't give a damn- who'd never heard of Eddy Gordo, or Capoeira, or her; who just wanted to get drunk with friends, maybe meet a fit girl they could hook up with.

But it was hard going. She didn't help herself by sitting out in the mornings, staring up at the top of the Mishima Tower- the crown of the world's tallest building, nicknamed the Gargoyle's Peak. She couldn't help mulling over the fact that, sitting there, she could be directly in Jin's line of sight. From that tower, all he needed was a pair of binoculars and he became a vast microscope overlooking the entire city in a way that was almost godlike. The tower wasn't really that far from her; she guessed that with good binoculars- which Jin must have- he would probably be able to clearly make out her facial features. The thought that he could see her, follow her almost anywhere, whilst she couldn't get within a square mile of him, was galling.

Still, she calmed herself with the knowledge that, as long as she could keep winning, match after match, week after week, sooner or later he'd have no choice but to emerge; and answer to her face to face.

--

At about 9:00, at exactly the time that the guards changed shifts, a kid in tight jeans bought a newspaper from a vendor by the street. Though the headline was in Japanese, he could have guessed what it read: THE KING OF IRON FIST: ROUND #1 BEGINS TOMORROW.

Crossing the road at speed, he bumped directly into a tall man in a long coat. The two brushed past each other with barely a word of complaint. The kid carried on swiftly down a side street, continued for several blocks, then cut right into a high-rise apartment block, where he headed directly for the eighteenth floor, room five. Back on the street, the man in the coat was nowhere to be found. No guards had seen them bump into each other, not that it would have mattered either way.

With the exception of the upcoming tournament, there was nothing to be talked about on Tokyo's streets.

--

"Got it?"

"Got it!"

Leo whipped the paper from under his arm, threw it on the couch without looking at it, and revealed the little memory stick that had been hidden behind it.

They were in Yoshimitsu's 'safe house' in Tokyo- a very ordinary, very cramped apartment. It didn't make great living quarters for two guys; not least because it was ten years old, and anything a week old in Tokyo was already out of date. There was a small lounge, a bedroom, a bathroom with a shower. A window on their left looked out onto a small park, and an array of shops and hotels on the other side. The Mishima tower was, as ever, just within sight.

But the apartment had its advantages. There was a computer, which Yoshimitsu was sitting at, uploading the contents of the memory stick. But, more importantly, the flat was bug free. Computer bugs, that is.

Yoshimitsu had suspected from their arrival that properties had been bugged at random throughout the city. In a war, he knew, it paid to be watching everyone at all times. But the 'safe house' was called that for a reason, and not least because the Manji party had swept it for bugs more rigorously than a particularly suspicious drug dealer with a bounty on his head. Yoshimitsu needed to know that their conversations weren't overheard, especially since it wasn't just his own safety he was watching out for anymore. He was going to take a lot of risks before the tournament ended; but he found now that he was eager to be more careful than he'd ever been before.

"So who was that?" Leo asked, slumping onto the couch.

"Who, the guy who gave you the memory stick? He was one of mine, in the Manji party."

"The what?" Leo frowned. "Can you explain? You've been promising me since we got on the plane in Hokkaido. What's going on?"

"Okay, fine." Yoshimitsu took one last impatient look at the little loading bar on the monitor, inching along the screen. Then he turned to Leo.

"Long and short of it is this- I am the leader of an organisation of ninjas called the Manji Party- or Manji Clan, if you like. Once upon a time, back in the days when ninjas were every politician's spokesman, a dojo was set up in the Manji valley, about a hundred and fifty miles north-west of Tokyo. Its position deep in the mountains made it essentially impenetrable unless you had been told the way, so the dojo survived."

"Whoa, hold on!" said Leo. "Ninjas? He didn't look like a ninja to me. D'you still do… assassinations and stuff?"

"Nah, since a black mask and a belt bristling with ninja death stars tends to stick out in a crowd nowadays, the organisation has changed a great deal. Now we work for the peace of Japan- at least, that's the theory. All the members are still trained in ninjitsu, however. And no, we don't do assassinations 'and stuff' anymore."

He stopped for a second, surprised by his own words. "That's what I hope, at least. But ever since the war- it's looking like the Manji clan may have one more life to take."

"Jin Kazama," said Leo, nodding. "You're trying to stop the war, aren't you? You're gonna try and kill Jin Kazama."

"Or at least beat him in the tournament," said Yoshimitsu. Then we can take over the company."

The computer made a noise. A schematic of the city appeared. Several buildings were highlighted in red.

"So if that's the aim, why are we going after G Corporation labs?" asked Leo, coming to look at the screen over Yoshimitsu's shoulder. "Surely we should be hitting the Mishima places."

"It's true that the MFE is the greatest threat," Yoshimitsu explained, "but there are two reasons why we need to target G Corporation as well. Firstly, they may have a scientist working for them who's important to me- he saved my life. I'd love to repay the favour; not that his skills wouldn't be helpful to us as well. Manji spies tell me he's working on stem cell technology that could heal almost any wound."

Leo whistled approvingly.

"And secondly," Yoshimitsu went on, "and much more importantly… the head of G Corporation is Kazuya Mishima. You know yourself that he's a psycho- I mean truly insane. Capable of anything. And when- if- we take down the MFE, we'll leave a huge military-organisation-shaped hole for Kazuya. Then he could set about conquering the world himself, tournament winner or not."

"We're caught in a tough situation. At the moment, the Zaibatsu is the major threat to the world- even G Corporation can't hold in the war too much longer. So we have to stop them if we want Japan, and the whole world, to ever return the world. But equally, we have to make sure that the power vacuum is filled immediately. If Kazuya manages to take power, by any means, the consequences could be unimaginable."

There was silence for a moment. Leo sat down on the couch again, staring into space. Yoshimitsu wondered if he saw his mother in front of him.

Then Leo said: "What do we do now?"

"Hold on a second." Yoshimitsu replied. "We? You keep saying 'we.' Are you sure you want to be in on this? You could die."

"Sure I'm in!" said Leo fiercely. "It may be Kazuya who killed my mother, but the war's the reason she's dead. It makes me sick to think of how many people just her have died because of Kazuya and Jin. Besides, now I'm not in the tournament anymore. This is my best chance of getting close to Kazuya."

Yoshimitsu chuckled. "Great! Tonight we'll raid a G Corporation Warehouse the clean and easy way- right through the front door. My contacts tell me there are large quantities of supplies coming in all the time, right under the MFE's nose. Truth be told, I'll be glad for the company. Manji clan members are loyal to a fault, but they're not much in the way of conversation."

"When are we going?" asked Leo eagerly.

"We'll leave once it's dark. In the meantime you get to grab dinner in town or something, and be a regular person for a little while."

"Sounds like a plan!"

Yoshimitsu turned abruptly and stared directly into Leo's eyes without a trace of humour. "Leo," he said slowly, "You realise that, even if you get to Kazuya, and you fight him… he's one of the most likely candidates for winner in this tournament. His skills are inhuman. He could kill you. I know he wouldn't hesitate to."

"I know that too," said Leo grimly. "But it doesn't matter. I have to try."

--

**End of Chapter 4 **

Sorry that not much happened in this chapter- that's why I decided to keep it short. I'm feeling some push to get Asuka into this story. Well… I guess there must be a way, though I won't just throw her in for the sake of it. What does everybody think?


	5. Contacts

It's not really relevant to anything, but to anyone reading from the States, us here in the UK have got heavy snowfall and lots of schools are closed. It's nearly a foot deep where I am, so plenty of time for writing that's usually wasted on school.

Disclaimer: Own nothing. Making no money.

After three weeks of training, and skipping hastily from HQ to HQ as they drew closer to the coast, Lars could only marvel at the skills of this tall Spaniard called Miguel. He was starting to feel pretty happy to have him as a sparring partner; what had begun as a means to an end was starting to look like an incredible gain in itself.

Lars knew he had taken an incalculable risk by inviting Miguel- who could realistically have been a spy, agent, an anarchist, anything- into his command group. But then he'd always known he would need to take risks if he was even going to get a voice in this war. He was chronically short of men, supplies, weapons and, most importantly, officers. The troops of the Tekken Force were highly trained, but they weren't cut out for leadership.

Yet with each spar, Lars had begun to see Miguel less as a potential officer and more as a deadly weapon- a remarkable fighter in himself. Despite having never trained formally, Miguel had an incredibly diverse set of moves, born from years of fighting and brawling; being forced to adapt to almost every imaginable combat situation. His skills were so diverse that they almost constituted a martial art in their own right.

Even so, Miguel progressed at frightening pace. Fighting was completely natural to him; he picked up every move and every stance as though he had been born to it, then incorporated it into his own unique style. Added to which was a considerable reserve of strength and a certain fighting cunning that can only be acquired on the brutal arena of the street.

On their final spar together before flying to Japan, Lars suffered a humiliating wake-up call. Miguel was fighting with unusual speed; Lars attempted a left-right kick combination, then leapt backwards before Miguel could counter. But it was a predictable move, and Miguel instantly rushed him, dropping blow after blow before crashing his opponent to the ground. For Lars, it was a reminder of just how tough the competition was sure to be. He hadn't been going at 100 percent in the spars, but even so…

When they had first fought, and he had aimed that gun at Miguel's head, he had been sure that he would have won the fight had they gone on. Now he wasn't so sure.

Perhaps because his pride was still dented from the fall, he decided to voice this opinion.

"I'll tell you, Miguel," he said, taking a seat on the side of the wrestling ring. "I'm beginning to regret not shooting you when I had the chance."

It wasn't a very good joke. Miguel looked at him bemusedly. "You never had the chance. I was too quick, remember?" Miguel joined him ringside. "Either way though; I'll remember you said that if we ever have to fight again."

"I still don't understand why you're still here," said Lars. "I'll admit you didn't have much choice back in that basement, but afterwards? You could have run away at any time. Why did you stay?"

"I needed training," admitted Miguel. "By a real martial artist, formally trained. And my only other option was through a shady character called Bruce who talked a lot but never seemed to say anything meaningful."

"Bruce?" repeated Lars, surprised. "Bruce who?"

"Bruce Irvin. He said he had 'contacts'… but that was as far as conversation ever got."

"Bruce Irvin is a bodyguard for Kazuya Mishima," said Lars quietly. "You're lucky we found you first. You could have gotten yourself in some dangerous business if you'd gone along with him."

Miguel nodded slowly. The news that Bruce was in fact a member of G Corporation didn't really surprise him. Since the war began, a whole collection of 'hooked-up guys' had appeared on the social network in every corner of the globe- an entire subculture of men and women with contacts in either the MFE or in G Corporation. It was the fast way to respect. Power, after all, gravitated to power. No contacts, no power.

"Fortunately that didn't happen. So what about you?" he asked, changing the subject. "Why did you want to hire me?"

"Oh, I did that out of desperation," said Lars offhandedly.

"I'm honoured. Explain…"

"There are three things any army needs: efficiency, supplies and organisation." He counted them on his fingers. "My Tekken troops are superbly efficient, and in terms of supplies, well, we manage; but organisation has been a problem since I broke away. You see, the Tekken Force was designed to be Special Forces, acting in small groups. They aren't organised with captains and corporals and so on, like most units- fine they only need to operate in small groups, but a disaster if you're trying to coordinate a wholesale force like I am. I need lieutenants."

"And why me?" Miguel questioned. "I've never commanded anybody in the whole world."

"You're a talented martial artist- and don't deny it- and you have a good knowledge of the street. That's what I need. Let me handle the leadership."

"Fine with me. When do we leave?"

A trooper came by and handed them towels; Lars slowly wiped off his face, then looked at his watch. "About twenty minutes."

Miguel blinked. "Well; let's just have to hope customs is quiet."

--

The plane was barely on the ground when Miguel received a call from Bruce. He wanted to meet at a sushi bar nearby, with a name that Miguel couldn't pronounce.

Miguel's first thought was not to show up. He already had a training partner, and besides, Bruce was a man he had never trusted from the very start. But his reason told him to keep every avenue open that he could- perhaps he was inherently pessimistic, but even given what he knew was a progression that had added a whole new dimension to his fighting, he still didn't consider himself good enough to take on Jin.

A small part of him was always restless about this, every day, driving him to push his limits harder and harder. He was shrewd enough to know that if Jin could defeat those of the Mishima bloodline, then he must be strong beyond reckoning. If he wanted to stand any chance against that, he thought, he needed to surpass all boundaries: to overcome the limits of the human body itself.

By the time Miguel had fought his way through customs it was 9:00pm and he was less than happy. Lars gave him directions to a hotel then set off without another word, obviously concerned about being recognised before the tournament, with its protecting cocoon of media coverage, had started.

For a few seconds Miguel stood still on the cold sidewalk, breathing out deeply and watching his misty breath dissolve. It was good to be alone again.

He hailed a cab and, in little traffic, soon arrived at the sushi bar- a suspicious looking joint backing a main road, a perfect setting, Miguel thought, for someone like Bruce Irvin.

But to his surprise, and slight annoyance, Bruce wasn't there. Miguel stood at the entrance for a second, frustrated by Bruce's failure to be on time for his own meeting, and already feeling intimidated by the loud humming of Japanese conversation. After taking one look at the food at the sushi bar, he decided against eating and found a seat in the corner, close to the window and facing the door. He had already considered just walking out and going back to the hotel. Years on the streets had honed his ability to wait, but that didn't stop him losing patience.

After twenty minutes, Miguel, unable to sit still any longer, went up to the counter and ordered a beer, that being the only beverage he knew the name of in Japanese. Waiting at the counter, he noticed that one of the customers, a white, brown-haired girl in her late teens, had a paper in English. He glanced over to read the page one headline:

UKRAINE FALLS TO ONSLAUGHT OF ZAIBATSU SOLDIERS: WHERE ARE OUR HEROES?

His beer arrived. Just as he was collecting the bottle, he saw Bruce step into the bar.

Miguel knew something was up. It was a look he had seen endless times before: the look of the double-crosser. This time Bruce was suspicious of others, his darting eyes moving out of fear for himself as well as judgement of others. Miguel knew better than to trust him already, but now he was on double alert. Maintaining an expression of unknowing indifference, he returned to his seat and motioned Bruce to join him.

"Hey pal," said Bruce, taking a seat, then promptly reached out to shake Miguel's hand. "Good job on coming."

_Now he's acting like we're long time chums,_ Miguel thought. W_hat's going on here?_

Again Bruce had a baffling change of character; suddenly he was just how Miguel remembered. Whatever game this guy was trying to play, he wasn't experienced in it.

"You never called me back about the explosion," Bruce pointed out. "What happened?"

Miguel wasn't willing to give up answers. "Nothing much. Just a gas leak or something."

"Whoa. Must have been a hell of a gas leak…"

"What about your match, anyway?" asked Miguel, changing the subject. "You through?"

"Of course I'm through," said Bruce bitterly. "Took some initiative, though."

"Explain."

"Well," said Bruce, smugly leaning back in his chair, "I was up against this colossal thing. A true monster of a man, who must have weighed thirty stone. Morbidly obese, truly. A horrendous hulking thing."

"So you beat him?"

"He caught me off-guard," Bruce snapped. "He was much faster than he had a right to be. Remarkably so, really. Fortunately one of my 'contacts' was on hand with a tranquilliser."

"You had him drugged?"

"Hell I did. One shot with a tranquilliser gun that's smaller than a pistol, with a dart barely visible to the human eye. Cutting edge technology. Like I said, I have contacts. Do you know your next opponent yet?"

Miguel nodded. "I was emailed on the flight. My match is tomorrow morning, in a park somewhere here, lost amidst all the other ridiculous names. But I'm sure my…" he grinned. "… contacts … can point it out to me. I've never heard of the opponent either. Ever heard of 'Yoshimitsu.' "

"Yoshimitsu," repeated Bruce reflectively. "He's a veteran of the tournament- competed in all of them. A master of ninjitsu. Think you can take him?"

"What do you care?" Miguel countered. "I'm not helping you and your 'contacts', so why are you so interested in my movements?"

Bruce leaned back in a position of smug assurance that, coupled with that arrogant, well-worked smirk, was truly incensing. "In fact, Miguel, you've already agreed to my offer. Remember? The only reason you haven't met your new partner yet is that you failed to check in to the right hotel-"

"What is this?"

Bruce paused mid-sentence. There was an edge of nervousness in his voice now.

"What is what?"

"This."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"This. This whole damn meeting. What is it?"

"I don't know what you're implying," said Bruce tightly, "but-"

"But nothing," whispered Miguel furiously. "You didn't take this time out of your day just to learn what happened in that village three weeks ago, and I'm sure as hell you didn't come to swap stories about our match-ups. You could have done all of that over the phone."

Miguel leaned very close, his voice a threatening whisper, "When I say 'about this,' Bruce, I mean the fact that you haven't been acting like a normal person since the second you got in here. You're trying to fuck with me. Pull something over. Now tell me what you actually wanted right now…"

"Or what?" Bruce said quietly.

"I'll put your head through this window," Miguel hissed. "And I'll fight it out with you right here and right now, without a moment's hesitation- I'll go all the way if I have to. Try me if you don't believe it!"

His challenge made, Miguel looked into the eyes of his contact and smiled. Once again he'd gambled everything on one roll of the dice. He knew nothing about who Bruce was, what his fighting skills were like, or how much back-up he could call on. Hell, he could have a gang of thugs waiting right outside the bar. But this time Miguel knew he'd won. Bruce was at centre a coward, and whatever happened, he'd never risk it all on one bar fight. His persona cracked and he was suddenly nervous and fidgety. He leaned even closer and whispered, in a hurried tone:

"Truth is I'm as ticked off about this whole deal as you. I may be just a henchman but that doesn't mean I'm happy with what's going on."

"You don't give a damn about the war, so don't give me that." They were almost speaking in each-others' ears now.

"Not the war itself, I mean who's winning. I…" he hesitated before giving away what he thought was new information. "I don't see G Corporation winning this war and when it ends I'd prefer to be on the right side."

"What are you suggesting?" Miguel demanded.

"Cut me in on whatever deal you're playing and I'll give you valuable information- everything I know."

Miguel started to respond, but Bruce interrupted him. "You may think I'm one hell of a quicksilvery guy and not to be trusted, but you know as well as I do that if the price is right that doesn't count for shit. G Corporation have new stuff, new tech I could get to you, and besides; -"

"There a problem here?"

The two fighters recoiled from each other in surprise. Standing over them was a girl in her late teens, strikingly fit, with her hands on her hips. Both Bruce and Miguel recognised immediately the quiet confidence of an accomplished fighter. Miguel smiled, and his tension and wariness instantly melted. He leaned back and put an arm over the back of his seat.

It was that girl from the counter.

"No problem at all," said Miguel smoothly. "In fact, Bruce here was just about to leave."

Bruce was about to protest, but at that moment a small beeping sounded. Bruce reached down and touched what looked like a pager attached to his belt. Without another word, he stood up and left the bar. Miguel idly watched him as he vanished down the street, walking at pace. Three men tall men in jackets came and walked by him- thugs.

He remembered the girl. Almost as soon as her face came back to him he felt the need to talk to her again. She had an impression about her that he couldn't shake. Looking round, he saw she was about to walk away, and he called to her to wait. Looking a little confused, she walked back over.

"Well done on breaking up us two stupid men over here," he said. "You must be someone very special. What's your name?"

"Asuka." Her brow furrowed. "Why do you want to know? I've never met you, have I? You're not from around here…"

"I'm Spanish," he replied. "But then you're not Japanese, are you."

"What gave it away?"

"You're white and you speak English."

"Oh yeah." She grinned sheepishly. "My grandparents moved over here a long time ago. I've lived here all my life."

"You remind me of someone," said Miguel thoughtfully. "A wonderful woman I knew once. But you're not Spanish, so I guess you couldn't be quite as good."

She looked indignant. "What happened to her? Did you ask her for sex during the siesta?"

"Actually… she was murdered."

Asuka immediately relented. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for. And I'm sorry for your loss. That was stupid of me."

Miguel forced himself to laugh. "Don't worry; I'm almost as quick to laughter as I am to violent temper- which as you just saw, is saying something."

He stood up suddenly. Asuka wasn't short, but Miguel loomed over her, dauntingly tall. "Would you really have fought me?" he asked.

"Of course I would have," she replied. "And loved it, too."

"The fight, or…"

She folded her arms. "I've known you five minutes and you're already starting to annoy me."

"In that case, I'll be going." Miguel bowed gracefully. "I wouldn't want to leave a bad impression."

He grabbed the beer bottle and held it up. "Here's to hoping you one day have to break up my bar fights again."

She just scowled.

--

Back in the street, Miguel couldn't stop thinking about Asuka. She was captivating. He ran and re-ran their conversation through his mind, and smiled every time.

Back in Madrid, he had become a local legend, renowned as a tough guy, not to be messed with. By the year before the war, when the whole world changed, he had reached the point where not a single guy anywhere had the balls to take him on.

He thought of Asuka again, and her fearless confidence. The only person who would have stood up to him like that back home was his sister. The only person he'd ever cared for.

--

**End of Chapter 5. **

Question of the Day: is it frustrating and/or confusing that I usually completely cut out the 'in-between scenes,' such as travelling in a cab or booking into a hotel? I have considered that it might be confusing sometimes, but I just find that lots of fanfics are hugely bogged down with the mundane, everyday events where nothing really happens, so keeping economical with what I present is one of my key aims. Good or not good?


	6. BreakIn

**Sorry this chapter has taken so much longer to get up. Truth is I don't mind admitting I struggled with it. Don't know why; it just didn't feel right. Updating speed may slow down a little from now on. As you can guess, I'm back at school after the snow, and coursework deadlines are coming thick and fast. So I have other, apparently more important things to focus on. **

**Disclaimer: Don't own anything. **

"Now wait up and keep quiet. Once we're through, we just get out and walk straight up to the side door, and you open it with your pass. We go in, we check the place out, we leave. It'll be a piece of cake. Easy."

Despite Yoshimitsu's reassurances, Leo was beginning to feel a little sick. He had never panicked easily- after all, he'd always wanted to be a world-class spelunker like his father, and that required skill, determination, acute thrill issues and a certified death wish. But even so, he'd never really broken the law before; and now he was going to drive straight into the warehouse of the second most powerful organisation on the planet. He remembered the moment he had looked out of the one-way window to see a sign on the wire fence, reading: INTRUDERS WILL BE SHOT ON SIGHT. When he'd signed up for the tournament he'd considered it the most dangerous thing he'd ever done, a move capable of putting him in a wheelchair. Now he wasn't even in the tournament anymore and he was risking his life. It was a sadistically comical world.

More for conversation than anything else, he said, "But what if the guard asks to look in the van? We'll be caught for sure."

"Nah." Yoshimitsu leaned back, looking remarkably comfortable for a man about to risk his life. He waved a dismissive hand. "They won't ask to look. Our driver will take care of it. My guys could charm a rattle snake, believe me."

The van pulled to a halt. There was muffled talking. Leo waited in tense silence, hands clenched to try and lessen the shaking, expecting at any minute for a hail of gunshots to rip out, and turn the van holey as a giant cheese grater. But there were no shots, and presently the van started up again and they drove on. Yoshimitsu was looking out the tinted window as they drove past.

"The guards are wearing Zaibatsu uniforms," he whispered to Leo. "They must be parading as an MFE warehouse. But how they could get away with that? What if the MFE try to make a transfer of warehouse supplies? They just hand over all the goods they smuggled out?"

"Maybe G Corporation just use it as a holding point- you know, so they can smuggle stuff out later. Just because the tech's here doesn't mean it's on record."

"Maybe… but I thought I told you to be quiet."

"You weren't!"

"I'm a ninja."

Yoshimitsu sat back from the window and stretched out his legs; his feet stopped to rest directly in Leo's lap. Leo brushed them away angrily, only for Yoshimitsu to replace them.

"What are you doing, stop it!" Leo complained. Then he saw Yoshimitsu was smiling out of the corner of his mouth. A blush of recognition inched across his face, which Yoshimitsu verbalised.

"Told you we'd been fine. Piece of cake."

Leo couldn't help but grin back.

The van stopped again.

They stopped their joking and waited, stock-still. Yoshimitsu had one hand on his sword. Then there were three sharp knocks on the side of the van; they relaxed as a Manji ninja threw open the doors.

"Nice job, Ieyasu" congratulated Yoshimitsu, as they clambered out. "I knew all along only you'd have the sheer gall to just drive up to those guards like you had every right. I would have driven myself, but I don't have a death wish!"

The ninja grinned back. "As a matter of fact I felt pretty safe. If a shoot-out did go down, I was happy to be the one with his foot on the accelerator- rather than trapped in the back."

The two allowed themselves a moment's relaxation as they revelled in the knowledge that the most dangerous part of the mission was over. But there were far to many years of experience between them to allow complacency. Once their few words were exchanged they smoothly and silently fell in to step, circling the side of the vast warehouse for the side door that was marked on the schematic. Leo brought up the rear, feeling hopelessly inexperienced next to these two. Considering how his nerves were tingling, he was already in awe of how calm and controlled they were. He managed to take three deep breaths and that helped a little.

"Here we are," said Yoshimitsu, "open the door, Leo."

Leo came forward with the high-security pass and gingerly slashed it through the card reader. There was a tense silence as the little red light indicating 'locked' glared out at them; then it flicked to green, accompanied by the faint sound of locks clicking. They were in.

The corridor opened immediately into a flight of stairs. "The door pass worked," Leo whispered. "This place must be G Corporation. But how could the Zaibatsu not figure that out? Something's up."

As he said this, they turned a corner and the staircase opened onto a huge, closed glass walkway, easily wide enough for the three of them to walk abreast. Down the left side of the walkway was a daunting array of computers and processors, ticking and flashing like some colossal metal organism. Peering through the glass there was only darkness, giving the impression of hanging in an immense void.

Yoshimitsu couldn't have been too impressed, because he wasted no time in going for the computers. Finding a suitable monitor, he started to tap away at the keys in a hurry. "It wants identity verification. We need the pass, Leo."

Leo swiped the card in a reader that was hooked up to the hard drive.

Access granted.

The more he looked, the more Yoshimitsu found that opening documents was only adding to his confusion. In his mind he was seeing a jigsaw with all the wrong pieces. Lists of items stored showed washing machines, toasters, pillow cases- an endless list of commercial bric-a-brac of the most trivial kind.

And, according to the files at least, it hadn't been stolen from the MFE either. It had been _bought_.

In disbelief the ninja brought up a document showing stock exchanges. It occurred to him how vulnerable this info was- one high-security pass knocked down every firewall, and decrypted every password on the G Corporation network, giving the owner almost unlimited access. Did G Corporation have nothing valuable enough to be worth proper protection? Or had he simply not found that section of data yet? He opened more files. They showed lists of stock buy-ups, often, it seemed, of whole slices of a Zaibatsu-owned company at a time. From the meaningless names one leapt out at him.

He called Leo over. "Leo… what did you say your surname was again?"

"Kliesen. Why?"

Yoshimitsu showed him the name on the screen. Alisa* Kliesen.

"Seemed from this that your mother wasn't spending," Yoshimitsu explained. "I've been through about 100 pages now that detail the proceedings of massive corporate buy-ups of Zaibatsu-owned stocks by G corporation executives. The MFE must have lost whole daughter companies to these buy-ups."

"So G Corporation is actually buying up the MFE from the inside out? But they're at war. How could they do that?"

"I don't know exactly, but these aren't military companies they're buying off. It's everything else. The Mishima Zaibatsu might be based on arms production, but they're still 20% commercial at least. No company that huge could survive on nothing but weapon industry, especially when until now there hadn't been a major war in twenty years."

Yoshimitsu shook his head in sudden frustration. "But it still doesn't make sense. These buy-ups would put a dent in anyone's bank account. I don't think it'd be an exaggeration to say that the loss of this much money to buying useless companies is the main reason G Corporation is losing the war. Why would they do that?"

He looked at Leo and paused. The kid stared off into the darkness for a few seconds, tight-lipped. "What about my mother, Yoshimitsu?" he asked quietly. "What about her?"

Yoshimitsu smiled grimly. "Of all the CEOs, she's the only one on this database refusing to make buy-ups. I think you've found Kazuya's motive."

Leo nodded but didn't seem to register the words. "Murder over a couple of stocks," he was murmuring to himself. "How mad is that? She refused him funds, and he took her life. Some exchange..."

The ninja found he had no words of comfort. He had never been a parental figure- he had an uncontrollable nature that rebelled against such a thought. But sometimes it was galling that, where others could drop the reassuring phrase, all he could manage was silence.

Eventually Yoshimitsu summed up the nerve to say he was downloading the files.

"Better hurry," said Ieyasu, reappearing seemingly from nowhere. "I've checked downstairs and there are employees getting ready to move- and they've got guns."

Yoshimitsu nodded agreement. The download bar was at 90%. "Just let me rip the files and-"

Suddenly an alarm sounded- one sharp and threatening note rang up and down the walkway- the lights flashed on.

What they saw- or rather how much- made Leo and the ninjas pause even amidst the chaos of flight. Below them were thousands of crates, crammed into a warehouse at least the size of an aircraft hanger. In some places the crates were stacked twenty feet high.

For a moment the sheer scale was overwhelming: a spit in the face of reality. Their senses closed up for a moment as they absorbed the ridiculousness of such a vast armoury of useless supplies, bought for huge cost, yet of no help to the war, and guarded more securely than Fort Knox on national kleptomania day. It was a situation that struck them as laughable, yet somehow its mysteriousness made it almost sinister.

Then they heard shouting from the staircase they had come up by, and their reverie came to a harsh end. Yoshimitsu's reaction was instant. "Out the other side! Quick!" The pounding of feet on metal grew rapidly louder. Now they were running for the opposite door. The pounding on metal stopped, followed by, shouting- calls for them to halt, to put down any weapons. The two ninjas didn't look back, but Leo was not so collected, and as he glanced back he saw weapons trained on them. The door had been thrown open and he flew through it. A bullet came so close that wood splinters hit his face.

Then they were sprinting.

The corridor split two ways; Yoshimitsu angled left, then left, Ieyasu close up behind him. Leo couldn't believe their speed- it was all he could do to keep up.

Shouting on the left! A door flew open beside them; Yoshimitsu, acting with staggering agility, delivered a flying roundhouse to the first man to emerge, crashing him back into his comrades, whilst barely slowing in his run. They turned down another corner. Leo guessed through his panic that they must be in offices- some sort of admin. Doors were opening everywhere now. Four soldiers appeared in front of them and they ducked left down a second corridor. There was so much noise now that Leo couldn't distinguish the sound of gunfire, running, shouting, and chaos from his own pounding heart and screeching lungs. Sweat dripped into his eyes and he blinked it away furiously.

At that moment Yoshimitsu ground to a halt. Leo almost flew into Ieyasu's back.

"Get out the pass!"

"It won't work with the alarms set off!"

"It'll work on inside doors. Now do it!"

Leo pulled out the pass and Yoshimitsu snatched it away. They were in front of a metal door that opened mechanically. Yoshimitsu swiped the card over the reader and, sure enough, it slid open and they dived in.

Yoshimitsu spun back without stopping and proceeded to lock the door behind them. Almost immediately a body slammed into it from the other side, and they could just hear scrambling on the other side.

Leo had seconds to take in the laboratory they had just rushed into. A chair similar to a dentist's dominated the centre of the room, surrounded by numerous shelves crowded with delicately arranged instruments. That, then, was the reason this room was so secure. It was the only room with tech inside worth stealing.

"Over here!"

Leo and Ieyasu rushed to Yoshimitsu's side. Before them a double-glazed window looked back into the city. Fifteen feet below them a seven-foot fence, topped with barbed wire, waited expectantly.

"No staircase," Yoshimitsu said hurriedly. "We're gonna have to jump. You think you can make it, Leo?"

Leo swallowed. "How far's the fence?"

"Five feet out. Can you make it?"

A slam issued on the door, and the menacing little light on the reader flicked to green.

"You better decide quick, kid!"

"What happens if I can't?"

"You die!"

"Then I'll have to make it, won't I!"

Yoshimitsu drew back and leapt at the window with a full roundhouse kick that even the double-glazing couldn't handle. The window buckled and fell away in a shower of glass.

The door swung open. Gunfire everywhere. Leo leapt without thinking, and for a moment it felt like he'd just hang in the air forever.

Then he was plummeting. The ground came surging up to meet him, and even though he rolled as he'd been taught, the impact jarred every bone in his body. A shard of glass caught his face and sliced open his forehead. For a second he was sure he was going to die.

Then he was running again, and the sound of gunshots was growing gradually quieter.

Presently it stopped altogether.

--

It was industrial carelessness that had saved them. At some point or another someone had decided to build residences right up to the back of the fence, allowing the three intruders to slip smoothly and seamlessly back into the organised mayhem of night time Tokyo. No one had seen them well enough to pick them out in the sort of crowds the city was famous for, especially since the war started, and the night, when troops bunked posts without a second thought, and nightclubs opened, had become safer for commoners than the day. If there had been even twenty feet of flat ground they'd have been sitting targets.

The trio moved swiftly, cutting down alleys whenever possible. They were still in the outskirts, where things were always quiet, and Yoshimitsu was eager to get into the city centre.

Leo moved alongside Yoshimitsu. "What happened back there with the alarm?"

"How should I know?" responded Yoshimitsu heatedly.

"Sorry I asked."

Leo dropped back next to Ieyasu, who nudged him and said quietly. "Best not take so light a tone with him for awhile. Bear in mind you could have died in that raid- it wasn't supposed to go at all like that. And Yoshimitsu feels responsible for him."

"Well he shouldn't," said Leo tightly. "I can take care of myself. Besides, I agreed to do this, didn't I? If something happens, it's my own fault."

Ieyasu shook his head. "He's always taken responsibility for the people he considers under his wing. That includes the Manji party itself. It's part of the reason he's in this tournament."

"Hold on… what d'you mean, part of the reason? I thought he was trying to end the war."

"He is, but…" Ieyasu looked surprised. "Well, if he didn't tell you I guess I'd better not."

Leo pondered this grimly. He had to remind himself that it was a personal stake that had got him involved in the tournament as well. It seemed that no one entered this tournament without a desire for revenge. Perhaps that was how it had all started.

"Hold on a second!" Yoshimitsu had stopped them. Five men were coming down the street towards them. Leo glanced at the one at their head and didn't fail to notice his measured balance. He was a black man, deceptively large and muscular, with a darting glance that would put a Buddha on edge. He was closely followed by four thickset men in black suits, none of whom looked to be under six-foot-four or have more than a brain cell between them.

Leo felt his body instinctively tense for combat.

"Who are these guys?" he whispered to Yoshimitsu.

The ninja loosened his sword in its sheath before replying. "The one at the front is Bruce Irvin. He's a long-running competitor in this tournament. Seen enough quarterfinals to start his own scrapbook, though I don't think he's ever got further. Anyway, get ready for a fight."

"So you're the guy?" sneered Bruce, as they came to within a few feet of each other. "Yoshimitsu, isn't it? And who's with you?"

"His name's Leo," said Yoshimitsu, squaring off. By now the four thugs had spread out into a semi-circle, their fists hanging, clenched, by their sides.

"What do you want?" Leo demanded. He wasn't going to let this Bruce believe he was scared.

"You in the tournament?" Bruce demanded.

"Err…" Not the question he had hoped for. "I was. Yoshimitsu knocked me out. But I got all the way to final stage of the qualifiers."

Bruce smirked. "In that case I am duly terrified. Still, there's nothing like fresh meat. Preserves well, too. If you wanna go, kid, go now. It's Yoshimitsu I want."

"I'm sticking with him."

Bruce dropped into a stance. "Fine. To be honest I thought you'd say that. I'll take you down with him then."

Yoshimitsu was in a stance as well now. "Still cheating your way to the quarterfinals, then?" he said through clenched teeth."

Bruce watched him with those darting eyes. "You could say that…"

Then he attacked!

**--**

**Apologies if there are technical mistakes in this fic when Yoshimitsu explains about what's happening. I am not, after all, a high-powered businessman. If you happen to be a high-powered businessman, go ahead and review and tell me how this would actually work. Otherwise I think we all understand the basic gist of it. **

**I don't mind admitting I don't think this is my best chapter, even despite several re-writes. But as usual I can't quite put my finger on the problem. It seems out of rhythm… like it doesn't read all that well. True? Review and tell me. **


	7. Wounds

**It's been pointed out to me that Leo's mother's name is Emma, not Alisa. No problem. I'll change that later. Thanks also to everyone who reviewed, and thanks for going easy on the last chapter. I will try and reply to your reviews but may forget. As ever, your support and advice is much appreciated. I think I've said those exact words before, haven't I…**

**Disclaimer: Own nothing. **

**--**

"What do I do?"

"You fight him," Jin replied matter-of-factly. "You try and win, just as you would with any other opponent."

Despite all his training, Eddy couldn't keep a touch of fear from his voice. "They say he's a… demon."

"Speaking from experience," said Jin slowly, "I have found that no-one of the Mishima bloodline is entirely human. But he's still beatable. If you are very lucky you could win."

"And… If I lose?"

Jin didn't answer.

--

Bruce's kick had been staggering.

They were all fighters there, and for a second no one could believe the speed and precision with which Bruce's kick came up, completely from a standing position. It was executed with a skill any fighter would be proud of. Even Yoshimitsu, ducking away with similarly incredible reflexes, registered the expertise.

Then they were close up and fighting with gritty technique. Bruce, standing high on his toes, jumped into kick after kick, whilst Yoshimitsu stubbornly blocked and turned, aiming to outflank his opponent. Both were critically aware of how dangerous a heavy fall on a solid concrete curb could be, and were taking blows rather than risk dropping to ground. It was almost a brawl.

But Leo had his own problems. Two thugs were coming at him, gradually drawing apart and advancing on both sides. Leo dropped back to give himself room from the flailing forms of Yoshimitsu and Bruce in the background. The thugs had reached into pockets and now carried knives.

There was a second of calm that always came before a fight. Leo felt his breathing steady and his muscles loosen. The prospect of being on the wrong end of two blades became less and less threatening until he was totally calm. He took a final deep breath and started to bounce on the balls of his feet. The two thugs came on. Leo feinted a retreat, then suddenly leapt in, aiming straight between them, then suddenly angling left in a surprise move that left both of them cowering under their forearms. Dodging an inept swing, Leo sprung into a one-two punch followed by several lightning kicks, high and low. His opponent smoothly blocked, showing off unexpected skills, but Leo still managed to land a spiteful kick to the knee that left him with a noticeable limp. Wary of pressing his advantage too far, Leo dropped away and skipped nimbly back, still bouncing lightly and constantly moving. Caught on the back foot and bracing for defence, the second thug was too slow to try an attack.

Leo had to take a second deep breath, because he was already starting to sweat. He still hadn't fully recovered from the warehouse escape, and besides, keeping up this stance would take its toll on any fighter anywhere. But he knew if he didn't keep moving he'd quickly be blindsided, and that'd be the end.

End of his life.

It occurred to him for the first time that he might actually be fighting for his life. Panic gripped him by the throat but he furiously fought it down. Springing in again, he feinted left then lashed out right, moving swiftly into his Jin Ji stance and throwing his opponent hopelessly off-balance. Leo delivered a few stunning blows then slipped a leg round his calf and tried to draw him in for a finisher, but somehow the guard slipped over his leg-lock and leapt clear. Seeing the second thug move in, Leo had no choice but to fall back.

Three times more he darted in and then leapt back, always careful to be moving so that the two thugs blocked one another's line of attack. But they were both much tougher than he'd first expected, and however well he outfought them he could never get time for a finisher. What's more he was slowing down and his moves were getting sluggish. The memory of what had happened the last time he slowed down, in his fight with Yoshimitsu, was clear in his mind and he knew that panic had become like a third opponent, always trying to get the better of him. Once already he had missed the chance of a finalising blow because he had panicked about being too tired to complete it. Now he was paying up for it.

He risked a glance to his left. Yoshimitsu and Bruce were still fighting furiously. Yoshimitsu's blade was drawn but Bruce was hugging so close to him that it had become mostly a test of their pain thresholds. Behind them, Ieyasu, who like Yoshimitsu carried a sword, had managed to take down one of his thugs and was closing in on the second.

That was it. Still bouncing on the balls of his feet, Leo hopped right between the two thugs, swinging and kicking blindly until he felt them fall back on the defensive. Immediately he fell into a back-step that carried him round Bruce and Yoshimitsu, putting them in the way of the thugs. Ieyasu was in sight and he spun, sprinting full on to join in with him. Then there would be two on two.

But a flash of silver in the murky streetlight stopped him in his tracks. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bruce break away from Yoshimitsu and aim at him with a clasp knife. In one second he saw another flash of steel, and a zigzag pattern emerged as he ducked blindly away. He heard Yoshimitsu cry out but had no time to react. A thug rushed at him, knife outstretched. Leo turned it away with both hands, still falling back. Twice more the blade lunged for his stomach, only to be turned away, with less space between them each time. Then his back hit the streetlight. The blade came forward for his head. Somehow he ducked; metal hit metal and there was a deafening screech as the blade snapped. Acting completely on instinct, Leo struck out at the arm of his attacker with an elbow to the wrist. The man yelped and his broken knife dropped.

Leo had no qualms about fighting him unarmed. Diving forward and going through a series of combos, Leo could see now that the thug had no chance. Pretty soon he was unconscious.

Leo stood over the body of the thug and looked around him. Ieyasu was kneeling over the body of another thug, checking his vitals. Bruce and the other two were nowhere to be seen. There was a frightening silence in the street, a stillness, as though the neighbourhood refused to accept that anything had gone down. A light went on in a house to Ieyasu's left. The ninja stepped away from it swiftly and moved to where Leo was.

"You okay, kid?"

"Yeah. I think so."

Ieyasu looked him over uncertainly. "Your face is covered in blood."

"What? Serious?"

Leo touched his cheek and his gloved fingers came away red.

"How bad's the bleeding?"

"Most of the right side of your face is covered. But don't worry, we'll get you stitched up later."

In the aftermath of the fight Leo was starting to feel immensely drained. His mouth was dry. Every movement suddenly felt like an immense effort. He licked his lips but it didn't help the sensation of dryness.

"We better get of the street before the locals start coming out for a look," Ieyasu went on, seeing another light go on in a home. "Where's Yoshimitsu?"

"I'm here! I've been stabbed!"

For a moment Leo had a horrendous image of them being caught in some sort of cliché Hollywood drama. Yoshimitsu had taken a knife for him… he ran to his side praying he wouldn't be dead.

Leo ran over to him and grabbed him by the shoulders.

"I'm dying," said Yoshimitsu quietly, seeing Leo's face. He coughed feebly.

"What? But you can't!" Leo cried. "You can't die now! Please no!"

"It's no good," Yoshimitsu whispered. "I'm… happy I saved you."

Leo felt tears in his eyes. His shoulders shook as the reality started to sink in. He heard a grim chuckle and rounded on Ieyasu. "This isn't funny!" he screamed. Then he looked back at Yoshimitsu and saw that he was smiling too.

Now a new reality started to materialise and he angrily wiped away a tear and scowled. Yoshimitsu just grinned.

"Glad you feel so much for me, kid," he chuckled. "But I'm not going to die yet. He only got me in the leg."

Leo glared at him. "That was seriously _not_ funny!"

"Was from where I was standing," said Ieyasu conversationally, coming to Yoshimitsu's side.

"And by the way," Yoshimitsu said, "try not to flatter yourself, kid. I didn't deliberately take a stab for you. The idea was to block it; Bruce was faster than I expected. Or maybe I was slower."

Ieyasu had helped him to a sitting position. The knife had taken him in the fleshy part of the thigh, some way from the main artery. Even so, Yoshimitsu was losing blood freely.

"Maybe it's not so funny as we thought," said Ieyasu grimly. "You might be alive, but… Yoshimitsu, you got a match tomorrow morning. You gonna fight on this leg?"

"I'll have to."

This time there wasn't a trace of humour in his voice.

--

10:00am. Miguel completed his stretches just as his opponent arrived. Yoshimitsu stopped by the little fountain at the centre of the square and began warming himself up. Soon his blade was gliding effortlessly through the air in a series of complicated manoeuvres. A small crowd of bystanders, mostly soldiers on guard duty, was gathering around them, and forming an artificial ring with the fountain in the centre. Lars sat on the backrest of a bench, his legs on the seat. Miguel was watching his opponent's warm up.

"He seems to have a sword," Miguel observed. "Is that legal?"

Lars followed his gaze." Unfortunately yes, he is allowed the sword. I think it's a remnant from the first tournament. Heihachi was so arrogant that he was sure he could defeat even an armed warrior in combat. So Yoshimitsu, as a sword-master as well as a ninjitsu expert, was allowed to use his sword. It's blunted, of course."

"But still gives him a longer reach than me- by about three feet."

"It's true. Try and keep in close to avoid that," Lars advised. "He's very good, but you're both stronger and younger than him. Bear that in mind."

Miguel grinned wryly as he stepped into the circle. "Truly, Lars, I'm awash with optimism."

--

Ten minutes later, and it was clear to anyone with experience that Yoshimitsu was in trouble. For all his years of experience, the erratic aggression of Miguel's style was something he just couldn't come to grips with, and faced with this problem it was difficult to make his own unpredictable style count.

More importantly, though, he was favouring his right leg. His wounded left had held up reasonably at first but degenerated rapidly as the match wore on. Miguel must have noticed, because he had worked the leg almost from minute one.

At eleven minutes, Yoshimitsu humiliated himself by requesting a pause. Miguel-exhausted from the disproportionate amount of dodging he'd been doing to avoid that sword- accepted.

"You have him on the ropes," said Lars, offering a bottle of water.

Miguel shrugged cynically. "He's not fighting at a hundred percent. You noticed his leg, right?"

Lars nodded. "Right. God knows what he was doing the day before his match. Contact sport, maybe? All the same, you should be grateful. Truth be told, it might have won you the match."

"Whatever happened to 'stronger and younger than him'?" Miguel took a sip of water, then poured some down his back. Turning, he looked back at his opponent. "All the same though, it's putting me on edge. He knows he's lost on the endurance side so he's taking big risks just to keep one foot in the match. But if even one risky move comes away with a big payoff…"

"You should be more confident. More likely his taking risks is working in your favour."

Miguel handed back the water bottle. A fit of anger was starting to take hold of him and all he wanted now was to finish the match. True, he had no qualms about fighting a handicapped opponent- that was something you learnt on the street. True, any win, not just an honourable one, would take him closer to Jin and the revenge that still filled his whole world. But even so…

There was something about the ninja that he couldn't help feeling he was missing. And the kid he'd arrived with, too. Leo, Yoshimitsu had called him. Leo had lost someone as well. That was something Miguel had known, had sensed, the moment he saw him. He couldn't tell how exactly he knew, except maybe that there was something in the eyes that only appeared once a person has become a victim of fate. A resignation.

And it was a reminder that he was nowhere near the only one in Japan eager for revenge. To achieve his goal, he was going to have to crush others'.

He stepped back into the ring of onlookers and was greeted by boos and hisses. Yoshimitsu sprung in shortly afterward, performed a neat cartwheel and elicited a roar of cheers. Much to Miguel's annoyance, the roles of hero and villain had been unanimously defined.

_To some people_, he thought, bitterly, as he advanced on Yoshimitsu, _to some people, life must be just a series of spectacles that they never partake in. A war started, their country came under the power of a business, and they virtually live in a dictatorship- and the one time they creep out of their homes is to watch two people fight in a meaningless tournament. _

It was true. In life, there were watchers, and there were doers.

Suddenly Yoshimitsu leapt forward, his sword swinging in a wide arc. Miguel moved to duck, then rapidly stepped left as the sword followed his movements. One, two, three punches in quick succession failed to stop the ninja swinging again with the sword. Acting on impulse, Miguel dodged deftly, then grabbed the blunted blade, moving in swiftly to try and trip his opponent to ground with a sweeping kick. Too quick, Yoshimitsu used the sword blade as a lever to wrench it from his hand, then dropped into a backward cartwheel as his legs gave. Miguel was too slow to completely avoid the rapidly rising feet, which delivered him a stinging blow to the jaw. Staggering, he regained his stance just as Yoshimitsu moved back in again. The Spaniard prepared himself for a lightning-fast shoulder-barge, but the ninja abruptly angled towards Miguel's left. The sword came up; Miguel ducked, counter-attacked, and then pressed in. A toe-kick hit the ninja's knee, collapsing him briefly- too briefly for Miguel's elbow strike to hit home, as again the ninja jumped clear.

With several feet of space again between them, Miguel took the chance to touch the bruise on his jaw. The hit had been harder than he'd thought and was already starting to swell. Still, he smiled. The exchange had confirmed one thing- the ninja no longer had enough strength in his left leg to use it reliably. Miguel advanced again, confident now that his right side was safe. As he moved in he started to inch to the left, forcing the ninja to circle in the opposite direction. By degrees the circle closed and Miguel came within striking range of the sword.

Then, in a baffling series of moves, Yoshimitsu leapt the gap between them, his sword flashing up briefly then disappearing again, his feet balancing on the hilt. Miguel was almost too surprised to block as Yoshimitsu hopped into him like a flea, his full bodyweight crashing against Miguel's chest. They both fell hard and rolled. Yoshimitsu seemed to glide back to his feet with shadow-like precision, then leapt into a forward somersault. Miguel hopped back and the attack missed him by an inch. But rather than counter-attack, Miguel immediately danced away several paces. Yoshimitsu's follow up suddenly had no target.

Now Miguel threw himself back into a shoulder-thrust. A dodge. He bit the dust and rolled away blindly. From a haze of dizziness and the roar of the crowd he saw the sword come swinging for his throat. He stepped clear. A second swing, then a third. Dodge after dodge. Then he saw the weak point, and the Spaniard ducked in suddenly, leaping from his feet. As the blade soared over his head his boot connected with Yoshimitsu's left knee. The ninja dropped; tried to roll away. Mistake. Miguel had already thrown himself forward and he landed directly on the ninja's chest, trapping the sword beneath him. As the ninja struggled to retrieve his weapon, Miguel delivered him a fearsome backhanded chop to the throat that left him choking for air.

Yoshimitsu knew now that he had one chance left. One good attack was all he could manage. Summoning up every grain of determination, he arched his back and levered his legs against the ferocious weight on top of him. Miguel fell over his head and Yoshimitsu flipped up backwards, his sword swinging round for Miguel's neck just as he was rolling back to his feet.

His leg gave way. Yoshimitsu could only swear in frustration as he felt the force of his attack sucked away, and he dropped to his injured knee. For the first time the full scale of his exertion set in and he could barely see for fatigue. He didn't know whether he'd even been in range of Miguel for his attempted finisher. Either way, it didn't matter.

He remembered being bitterly angry as Miguel's shoulder ploughed into him.

--

At almost the same time, five miles across the city, a second finishing blow was landing. Christie's flying kick made its first and last direct contact of the match, crumpling her opponent to the mat. Around her, disapproving looks turned to reluctant applause.

The match had been exhausting and she sank to her haunches to catch her breath. Despite her victory she felt drained, bitter and discouraged. She had forgotten just how good the competition in this tournament would be- suddenly her match-up with Jin seemed to be flying away from her at impossible speed.

The applause ended- none too soon- and the students of the dojo began to break up, forming into pairs to practice their techniques. She smiled despite herself. She quite liked kids, and she was glad they had enjoyed watching her match; but the dojo masters, who must have had several centuries' experience between them, were not so receptive. She thought this was probably down to how little she was wearing. But damn, did they expect a kimono?

And she was lucky she'd gone with comfort over respectfulness, because the fight had tested her endurance to the limit. She remembered the frustration of aiming kick after kick and having it sail harmlessly through mid-air. Her opponent had not been overly fast, but he could dodge like a squirrel in a tree. She watched him anxiously as a paramedic, who had been on hand, took his vitals.

"Miss Monteiro."

It was one of the masters. She stood up and forced a deferential expression.

"Master."

They bowed to each other.

"A message arrived for you during your match, Miss Monteiro. Your presence is requested at the Muriomo Hospital."

She frowned. "Why? Did they give you any indication as to who wanted me?"

"A friend," said the master softly. "He said you were the only one who would want to see him. He begs you to go."

Christie stared for a second as the colour drained from her face. An image of Eddie reared up from her subconscious and fixed itself firmly on the front of her mind, refusing to budge. Her hands started to shake. The master may have been talking but she paid him no attention.

She turned to the paramedic. "Is he okay?"

"He's fine. Just a knockout."

That was all she needed to hear. Without another word Christie spun on her heel and rushed for the door. Within seconds she was on the street and hailing a taxi. Her heart was pounding. As it pulled in she threw open the door and leapt into the back before it had came to a stop.

"Muriomo Hospital. Make it real quick."

"Sure."

For ten blocks she sat there in the back of the cab, listening to the blood pumping in her ears, thinking about the fact that all along Eddy had been in this very city, competing in the tournament. It seemed so natural and so obvious to her now that she was furious at her own greenness. He could have been staying in a room in the very same hotel as her! She'd never have known. But why hadn't he revealed himself to her? Thoughts of him rushed over each other without time for clarification. Despite all her charm and charisma, despite her looks, Eddy was the only real, the only true friend she'd ever known.

They pulled over. The hospital loomed over her in a threatening display of sterilised whiteness, a vast neon cross set into the façade. Christie barely noticed them as she tore open the door of the cab and rushed up the steps to the entrance, with the driver shouting futilely for payment. The reception clerk looked up at she entered.

"Hey, my name's Christie Monteiro. I was called for. Could you tell me the room?" She was so frantic that her words fell over themselves.

"Calm down Miss Montiero," said the clerk, ignorant of how frustrating he was being. At that moment there was more shouting and the automatic doors slid open and closed. The taxi driver- a tiny, stereotypically Japanese man- had not taken no for an answer.

"Miss, you need to pay," he blustered in broken English, coming right up to her. "It's simply not acceptable for people to be rushing off without paying."

The clerk was looking through his file for the ward number. Christie frisked herself but found nothing. She'd left her wallet in her jacket at the dojo. It didn't concern her.

"I don't have any money," she said, turning away from him. "Now tell me the room number!"

The clerk told her. She moved to run off but the taxi driver grabbed her arm, unwittingly coming dangerously close to a roundhouse kick to the face.

"You must pay somehow!" he demanded, "or I'll call the police!"

"Don't you understand?" she cried. "I have no money on me! You can wait till my freaking birthday money arrives if you want, but-"

"You must pay!"

"For Christ's sake!" suddenly she spun around, grabbed the back of his head and dragged him into a fierce kiss. After a few seconds she pulled away and the driver nearly passed out over the clerk's desk.

"That good enough?" she asked sarcastically.

"I guess… I guess…" he stammered, but she was already out of earshot.

--

Seeing Eddy again was like breaking out of prison after years of confinement. A pressure that had pressed down on her for so long suddenly lifted. She looked down on him in his hospital bed, and he looked back at her, seriously injured, yet alive. He smiled faintly as she knelt by his side.

"What happened?" she asked, tearfully, taking his hand in hers. "Where'd you go, Eddy? I thought you… you might be dead. You just left."

"I had no choice. It was for your grandfather." His voice was weak and gravelly, but her heart skipped as she heard her grandfather named.

"He's still alive? Where is he?"

"Calm down," said Eddy, smiling faintly. "It's wonderful to see you again too. Are you still in the tournament?"

"Yes."

He sighed deeply. "Thank God. I was worried."

"What do you mean?"

He smiled at her again, but she could see how little strength he had. Just speaking was exhausting him. She had always remembered him as her Capoeira tutor; an astonishing athlete and a world-class fighter. Now he was like an invalid, a broken hospital patient like any other, and it was heart-rending to compare. She had seen him now; she wanted to leave him and let him sleep, rather than let him torture himself with the effort of speaking. But she knew he wouldn't have any of it.

"Listen," he said. "Christie I… I cancelled your match-up with Jin. I'm sorry. But he would have put you in a wheelchair, or… maybe… killed you. He's relentless, Christie, a killer…"

"No, wait a second! What do you mean you cancelled it? How would you be able to? Why?"

"I knew you would be angry," he said, smiling at her once more. He rarely smiled for anyone, because, as Christie knew, for so much of his life he'd had very little reason for smiling. For the sake of business he had hardened himself against almost anything the world could throw at him. When he smiled she couldn't be angry with him.

"Let me explain," he continued. "I have been working for Jin Kazama since the beginning of the war. He promised me… the technology to save your grandfather. I had to do it. I have worked for Jin for two years now. I still don't know where your grandfather is, and the technology is not wholly complete, but… but it works, Christie, or seems to. The tech works."

"A cure?" There were tears in her eyes. "We can save him? How?"

Eddy gathered himself before going on. "Stem cells!" he said with force. "It's all about stem cell tech now. For the past six months the war has been fought over it. Jin believed they might be able to heal any wound. And it's true, they are incredible. I saw them used, once, on a mouse. It had been crushed in a vice. And it just… got up… and staggered away. In four days it was fully recovered. Imagine it. Imagine the ability to heal soldiers of any wound. Generals would- have- killed for it."

"I don't give a damn about the war," she cried. "If we can save him, I'm willing to go with it. I'll get the tech in any way possible."

Eddy squeezed her hand to quiet her. "No. The formula isn't complete yet. You'll need Dr Bosconovitch. He was the scientist Jin enlisted to head the research. Recently he was kidnapped. Before… this happened to me."

"I'll find him. Grandfather will be better- you'll be better. I promise you."

"I'll be alright. Don't worry about me. You need to make contact with Lars Alexandersson. He was… a lieutenant of Jin's until soon after the war started. Now he has broken away. He may be able to help you."

Christie was searching for a way to make sense of all this when a buzzer went. The clerk's voice sounded.

"A man here to see you, Eddy. His name's Tokugawa. Shall I send him up?"

"Yes."

As soon as the buzzer clicked off, a spark of panic appeared in Eddy's eyes that Christie had never seen before. She felt her muscles tense, as though in anticipation of a fight.

"Who was that?" she asked anxiously.

"It wasn't Tokugawa," said Eddy bitterly. "That's a fake name. But ironic that he would choose one of Japan's great historic generals. It's Kazuya Mishima."

"Kazuya! What could he want with you?"

"He's the one that… put me in this hospital bed. I don't know what he wants, but I didn't dare turn him away. He's a psychopath, Christie- far more dangerous than Jin could ever be. You must leave, right now. Turn right and take the stairs down. Don't even let him see you. Promise me."

"I promise," she answered. "But I don't understand. How can I find Lars? Why… why did you have to change my match-up? You don't need to look after me. I'm okay, I promise."

"I'm sorry. But there's no time now. I'll still be here if you need me." He chuckled weakly. "It's not like I'm going anywhere. But go now, before he arrives."

Christie jumped up, sensing the urgency in his voice. Ever since seeing that edge of panic in Eddy's eyes, Kazuya's name had taken on new significance to her- she knew already that, until the time was right, she would avoid him at any cost. She turned to go, looked back, then dared to give Eddy a brief hug.

"Don't worry about the match thing," she assured him. "I guess, in the end, you saved my ass- as always. Anyway, I'll find another way. Don't die on me- please."

Then she was out the door and moving swiftly away. As she walked, she could almost feel the confident gaze of Kazuya Mishima on her; almost as though he were already there, the beam of his red eye glaring into her back.

End of Chapter 7

I'd like you to tell me about the dialogue in this chapter, particularly in the last section. Good or bad?


	8. Conflict

I have had coursework deadlines coming thick and fast, so that's the reason my updating has slowed so much. Nothing I could do about it. Luckily half term is fast approaching and coursework is coming to an end (none too soon)- so I will hopefully speed up again after the end of this week.

There will be a kind of two-to-three week hiatus somewhere in the middle of the story where I can 'gather my thoughts'- after all I can't be expected to have too many at once. More on that later.

**Disclaimer: Own nothing. **

The official round one of the King of Iron Fists was the first time in a long time that the people of Tokyo had wandered the streets freely in daylight. The guards, so commonly thugs, became, for the brief hours in which the bouts took place, just any other spectator- and even if they hadn't, people would still have swarmed the streets.

After five tournaments the King of Iron Fist had taken on a special significance in its mother city. Where others saw simply a martial arts tournament, the Japanese especially saw something more. They saw a convergence of titans. There were, they knew, men and women in the tournament who seemed to surpass the very limits of the human body, performing impossible feats and resisting impossible injuries. And this year it was especially relevant, for though they would never discuss it openly, there were many people looking forward to seeing the Mishima Zaibatsu broken. If armies couldn't defeat it, then perhaps one of these superhumans would instead.

Yes, for the sake of the Zaibatsu's pride, they were more than willing, if not to act, then at least to watch.

But not all the people were watching.

By the time the Spaniard Miguel was delivering his finishing blow to his opponent, the ninja Yoshimitsu, and advancing to round #2 of the tournament, small, organised bands had already slipped into the chaos of the crowds, and were rapidly dispersing into all quadrants of Tokyo. After reaching prearranged destinations, they armed themselves with everything from knives through to military-grade weaponry, using stashes that had lay hidden for months. Guards who were considered loyal more than once turned a blind eye.

At 4:30pm, a small group of three young men, armed with pistols and knives, broke into a jeweller's in northwest Tokyo. The attack was badly planned, and they were quickly cornered and arrested by an armed patrol, who passed it off as an isolated incident- a statistical anomaly in a city where crime was at its all-time lowest. It wasn't reported.

The general lack of suspicion, especially in a city where armed police and soldiers had developed, thanks to the war, a tendency to shoot first and apologise later, was perhaps surprising. Regardless, no one suspected that this overconfident band of youths could, in fact, be part of a highly organised and well-prepared strategy that would soon be sweeping into every corner of Tokyo.

--

"It doesn't matter if you beat him out in the tournament; how can you believe him? It's clear as day that he's done nothing but lie his whole life. And now you want to put _trust_ in him?"

Lars nodded slowly, well aware of the risk he was taking. It made no difference to his decision. He had joined this war knowing he would have to take risks to win. It wasn't pleasant, but it was reality.

The two fighters turned left into a side street which, they had been told, cut onto the back of the Mishudo hotel. But Miguel wasn't paying attention to the street map.

"Bruce Irvin came to me first, and you told me yourself how dangerous he was," the Spaniard persisted. "He came to me last night, and I told him there was no way- that's why he has gone to you. He must know we came over together. And if he knows that, what else? Just think about the consequences of letting him in on your operations!"

"He didn't 'come to me;' we fought in the tournament. I knocked him out." Lars said. "But regardless of whether he planned it, it doesn't matter. The fact is that without his intel my force doesn't _have_ any operations. At first I thought that perhaps, with good planning, we could still gain a foothold in this war, but having seen the defences in this city… he's the only hope we've got."

Miguel watched him carefully. For a second it looked as if Lars, a veteran officer, a fighter whose every step suggested precision, discipline, control, was on the edge of despair.

"So I'm not your secret weapon anymore?"

Lars smiled thinly. "Truth be told, Miguel, after seeing that match with Yoshimitsu, I'm beginning to believe you could give us the best chance of all. If I win this tournament it will be a miracle- but after seeing the scale of your improvement since we fought, I'm willing to believe you have a chance."

"Don't flatter yourself," Miguel chuckled. "Your training wasn't _that_ good. I can only think that it is natural talent. But let's not get off the point: if you hire Bruce, anything could happen. If you think it's a good idea, then fine; I've always made a point of avoiding arguments I know nothing about. But I can't see anything good coming out of it."

"I understand the risk," Lars admitted, "But I have to go through with it. I'll need any help I can get if I'm to formulate a new plan."

Miguel raised a critical brow. "All these plans. What are they for? Am I ever going to know any of these plans?"

"But that's the thing," Lars groaned, "I don't have any plans anymore. Basically we need to have a way to close down the MFE if Jin or Kazuya remain as its CEO. At first it was pretty basic. If neither of us managed to win the tournament, a small, crack force of my Tekken troopers were to infiltrate the MFE tower and force Jin Kazama to make the company go public- that would end the war, obviously. At first I thought they might be able to parachute onto the building itself. We've got some copters, along with state-of-the-art guiding systems that could have brought them in. But it turns out the glass at Gargoyles' peak could resist a shot from a stinger missile. And defences on the ground here are totally impenetrable."

"In that case we'll have to make sure one of us wins the tournament. When is the next round?"

"Five days." Lars forced a smile. "I'll meet you back at the hotel."

"Maybe I should go with you to the Mishudo. If Bruce is there, it could be trouble."

"No way. If he saw you he'd switch off immediately and then I could never make him cooperate."

"I doubt cooperation is his byword, Lars."

They reached a T-junction and Lars headed right, whilst Miguel went left, heading back for the hotel.

"I'll be fine," Lars called after him.

Miguel waited until his partner was out of sight, then stopped walking.

"Whoever's following, you can show yourself now."

Yoshimitsu stepped out from the alley and approached Miguel without missing a stride. His face had such a steely anger that for a moment Miguel barely recognised him as the same crowd-loving performer he had fought that morning. he had one hand on his sword hilt.

"I never intended to hide."

For a full minute Yoshimitsu stood stock still, seemingly on guard, his cold gaze never wavering. Miguel, met with this glare of challenge, stared icily back, growing rapidly more incensed. The sun was setting, throwing the ninja into silhouette.

Yoshimitsu broke the silence. "Do you realise what you might have done?" He took a step forward. "This scheme of yours… you could have ruined us all. You come into this tournament looking for money- or more likely a quick ride to fame- and for that you've sacrificed the whole world."

"Don't even try and guess what I'm here for," said Miguel heatedly. You would never understand."

Yoshimitsu scoffed at that. He started to pace; on edge, like a wild animal, yet drawing a little closer to Miguel with every stride. The temperature had plummeted, and the ninja's grey breath could be seen against the silhouetted face.

"Then I guess you think you've got good reason," he said finally. "But let me tell you that's bullshit. I know you don't give a damn about the war."

"I _give_ a damn about the war," said Miguel under his breath. "It killed my sister. It's the reason I'm here. And you stand here accusing and insulting me!"

"It doesn't matter!" Yoshimitsu shouted. "The truth is neither I nor anyone could give a shit if you lost your whole fucking family to this war! There are so many people who have lost everything because of what Jin did; so many dead men and women and kids that it's become a statistic- a part of everyday life. So don't freakin' think you got some right to revenge that a million other people wouldn't kill for!"

"Why are you here?" Miguel demanded, barely holding his rage. "What the hell do you want- a rematch? Think again. Retribution? If you try anything I'll fucking kill you with my own hands."

Yoshimitsu paused for a second. They were so close that their cold, misted breath mingled in mid-air.

"Revenge? It's always been about revenge. Seems like mankind's been exterminating himself as payback since day one. He'll go to any means for it. Sell the shirt off his back. Revenge… there's no motivator like it."

Then he flared up again. "So for something called revenge the Spaniard decides to cheat his way to a match with Jin! Maybe I could have let it pass if the match had been won fairly, but to have all my plans destroyed by a cheating bastard Spaniard-"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Miguel hissed. "I never cheated. I noticed the limp and I used it, but I beat you in a fair fight."

"In that case I guess Bruce must have came after me in the street out of personal hatred! Because I can't think of any other reason he'd be there!"

"You're wrong!" Miguel barked, his shoulders squaring. Yoshimitsu went on furiously.

"I had an associate who saw you discussing in a sushi bar not even hours before I was attacked! You're in round two because you schemed your way in, and now it might be the only reason the war can go on! You stopped me from working to stop more murders so you could have your own! "

That was more than enough for Miguel to lose his temper. Ever since he'd been a mere kid on the streets he'd understood and abided by the unwritten rules of honour. And here was a martial artist from the tournament, acting like he was earth's saviour, insulting him, telling him he'd done so much wrong.

And worse, he'd dared to insult Miguel's reason for being there- a reason that had driven Miguel more completely than anything in his whole life. It was like Yoshimitsu was spitting on his sister's grave.

Suddenly he was stepping in, screaming at the top of his voice. He grabbed Yoshimitsu by the throat. The ninja staggered, off-guard; went for his sword but Miguel pressed his thigh up against the hilt, locking it in place.

He was swearing, but other than that Miguel knew nothing. He could quite literally see red. He heard voices but nothing else. Then-

"What the hell's going on here? Stop!"

Miguel recognised that voice.

The distraction was more than enough time for Yoshimitsu to free himself and deliver a punishing forehand to Miguel's gut. He gasped and stumbled, opening himself up to a blinding series of moves. But to his complete surprise, a graceful form leapt in front of him, blocking kick after kick with practiced ease. Miguel could only stand and watch as his anger began inexplicably to drain away.

"Asuka?"

On hearing her name, Asuka stopped fighting. Yoshimitsu, with obvious effort, restrained himself.

Asuka was in a blue skirt and white blouse. Miguel gave her a ready smile but she didn't return it.

"What are you doing now?" she demanded, ignoring Yoshimitsu. "I could have sworn I stopped you breaking some other guy's face just yesterday night. Can't you keep out of trouble?"

"What are you doing here?" asked Miguel, ignoring her question. "If you are following me, I readily forgive you."

"I'm not following you! I'm just going home from high-school."

Miguel raised a brow. "High-school?"

She shifted uncomfortably, suddenly looking very like a schoolgirl. "School doesn't stop just 'cause you're in a tournament, you know."

"You mean you're in the tournament?" Miguel whistled softly. "There's too much happening around here."

He turned back to Yoshimitsu but found that he no longer wanted a fight. He glanced around briefly, noting the hand Yoshimitsu still had on his sword, and the readiness to drop back into combat. He found the whole thing was draining- he'd had enough of fighting for now.

"Listen," he said. "I will prove to you that I didn't cheat you of this match. I came over here with another competitor called Lars. He fought Bruce in his match-up today. He can tell you the truth."

Before Yoshimitsu could answer, a taxi pulled up several feet away. A black-suited man climbed out of the back and approached Miguel without hesitation.

"Miguel Caballero Rojo? You need to come with me to Muriomo hospital immediately."

"Very funny," said Miguel drily. "But what the hell is going on here? Suddenly half the population of Tokyo seem to be gathering on this street. What is this about and why is it so important?"

"Who is this guy?" Yoshimitsu interrupted. He turned back to Miguel. "Ignore him. You said you would take me to Lars; this loser can wait."

"I really must insist you come now," said the black-suited man, his voice unwavering. "My client is on a tight schedule, as ever. And…" the man's eyes flashed momentarily. "He's used to not being kept waiting."

Miguel returned the stare suspiciously, surprised at how unafraid the man was next to this gang of fighters. His legitimacy and his seriousness were unquestionable. His suit was the real deal and expensive. His face was unreadable. On the streets, it was this type of authority figure, and this type alone, to whom even hardened criminals afforded a grudging respect. These were either the people with money and power, or their henchmen. It was this truism that convinced Miguel, at that very moment, with the ninja watching on, and Asuka standing by, to simply do as he was told.

"How long will this take?"

"An hour at most."

He turned back to Yoshimitsu. "Meet me at the square where we fought at eight-thirty tonight. I'll be there, and you can see Lars."

Yoshimitsu's face hardened. "You think you can just walk away from this?"

"I'm just about to." And without another word Miguel turned on his heel and climbed into the back of the cab.

--

Yoshimitsu stood with Asuka and Leo for some time as the taxi disappeared from sight. It was dark now; laughing and shouting could be heard in growing magnitude, and there were violent noises that whip-lashed the air unnaturally. Yoshimitsu was stock-still.

"Whatever's going on, I'm not sure if I want in on it," Asuka said quietly.

"Depending on who he's going to see," said Yoshimitsu, "I'm afraid you may not have a choice."

The ninja turned back to Leo. "Cancel the dinner plans, Leo. No nightclubs for you. We're getting back to the safe house."

Then to Asuka, "I'd get home too. And don't go out tonight, huh."

At the very end of the street a tiny orange light had appeared. "I've got a feeling we could be in danger. And that shouting… I don't think it's the guards."

**--**

End of Chapter 8

**Still any good? I always love it if you keep me up to date. Tell me if it seems rushed or hurried- I am purposely trying to cut out description that I feel is unnecessary, but I know it could be making it sound **_**too**_** short. **


	9. Kazuya

**So it's half term, and for the first time since Christmas I actually don't feel tired. Needless to say I've already written more in a few days than in a week or more during school time. But I'll stop ranting… on with the story. **

**Disclaimer: Own nothing. **

In the back of the cab, Miguel was suffering from a frustration that wouldn't go away.

Increasingly he was finding that the path to Jin Kazama would not be the straightforward, match-after-match affair he'd intended it to be. Get in, defeat Jin, but first learn the reason for his horrendous attack; then make a fistful of money on the side and get the hell out of Japan. That had been his plan, and now, of course, he saw it had been hopelessly optimistic- he still wasn't convinced he could beat Jin in a straight fight. But he wasn't used to juggling problems.

The cab pulled up. Miguel got out and paid the driver, still rolling things over in his mind. Lars' training had, and continued, to prove more helpful than he'd ever expected, but he wasn't convinced it would be enough by itself. Jin Kazama was, by definition of this very tournament, the best fighter in the world. Miguel needed another advantage to stand even a slim chance of success. But he hadn't, and still didn't, think it would come in the form of Bruce Irvin. The fact that Lars had even considered accepting his 'help' put him on edge. If Bruce was truly willing to offer them his help, who knew where it could lead; but to him it all just looked like another lie.

Then there was Yoshimitsu.

Miguel had entered the tournament knowing, and accepting, that to get to the top he would have to knock people down. It didn't bother him. Revenge for the death of his innocent sister filled him so entirely that he no longer justified his actions by other's standards. She was worth the immorality of it.

But Yoshimitsu was… somehow… different. He had already decided he would make the meeting with him; but what would happen from there he could hardly guess at. Once again, he found himself being sucked into a larger world than his deliberately narrowed, focused vision would allow for. He was moving from one man looking for revenge, to a soldier, in a war he had never wanted a part in.

_But then_, he thought, grimly, _Can I really ignore the war's existence? It's the only reason I'm here…_

Miguel got to the door of room 13, ward 6 and let himself in without knocking. What he saw made him stare openly.

The hospital bed was filled by a black guy, whose strong form showed through the covers. In sleep he looked almost peaceful, though Miguel's instincts told him almost immediately that there was something about him that proclaimed he was a fighter. But for the moment Miguel wasn't looking that way. His eyes were fixed on a tall, bulky man in a garish purple suit- an article straight out of the wardrobe of Oscar Wilde. Miguel passed his eyes over the bow tie, the silk lining, the red handkerchief, first in disbelief, then in amusement.

"Nice suit," he said dryly. "You protesting against something?"

The man smirked. "So many people have said kind of thing to me you can't imagine." The look was full of condescension. He turned his head briefly and his left eye, previously concealed, flashed red as it came into view.

"Oh really?" Miguel was already beginning to hate this guy. "Did you ever manage to discern the reason? Or do you think it's just us?"

He was still smirking. It was an infuriating look, a corner-of-the-mouth smile, almost a sneer. Miguel felt a sudden, irrational urge to launch himself at this guy, to knock the chip off his shoulder. He held back.

The man said: "In response to your question, I am well aware of the reason. But it amuses me how many people say things like that to me. Humans are really astonishingly stupid. If you knew me, you would not have said it, no; knowing is everything. Knowing one thing changes the whole. So like I said, if you knew me, you would see this suit differently. It would strike terror into your heart."

Miguel roared with laughter. "Knowing is everything, is it? I know you're an arrogant son-of-a-bitch! Who the hell-"

Then he discovered that, sickeningly, he _did_ find that it looked different now. There was an edge of threat to it, a certain declaration of the above… the mighty.

Miguel was beginning to think his overwhelming drive to attack this man was not just out of annoyance. He stopped in mid-sentence, rubbing his chin, suddenly serious. "I know you from somewhere. Just who are you? I feel like I should guess somehow."

"You should. Everyone knows me now- I am a hero. The saviour of mankind!" He snorted at that in derision. "My name is Kazuya Mishima. I've called you here to ask you to ask you to become my ally; but also- dare I say, more importantly? - to show you what happens to those who are not my allies. To my enemies."

Kazuya motioned to the bed with a sardonic grin. "He was my last opponent. Almost a challenge. But he knew from the moment he stepped in the ring that he stood _no_ chance against me."

Kazuya's red eye flashed again as he spoke, its opaqueness threatening. Miguel watched his features but could read nothing- Kazuya's face was a wall of conceit.

"If you think you're so strong, why do you need an ally? What help could I be to you?"

Kazuya took a seat at the bedside, throwing the wounded man into his shadow. From where Miguel was standing, that black form seemed to leer over Kazuya's defeated and helpless opponent in sadistic triumph. There was something about that sight, the sight of a victor standing over his prey, that infuriated Miguel to the point that his clenched fists shook. With considerable effort he took a seat opposite.

"Let me explain," said Kazuya. "I wish you to be my ally for one simple reason- to bring me Dr. Bosconovitch. Bruce has told me-"

"_You_ are Bruce's contact?"

"Oh yes. And he has told me of your connections both with Lars and with Yoshimitsu. If anyone knows where Bosconovitch is, it will be one of them."

Miguel didn't know what the trick was, but he wasn't buying. "That isn't the only reason. You could get anyone to do that job for you- any subordinate. I can see how it burns you inside to have to call me- or anyone- an 'ally.'"

Miguel detected, just for a second, the slightest twitch of fury as his words sunk in. He couldn't deny that it was frightening. There was something about Kazuya that suggested, beneath the surface, he was like a bolt of raw lightning, endlessly terrible, endlessly furious. Just for a moment it showed; but it passed quickly, to be replaced by a chuckle.

"Isn't life just a web of lies and half-lies? You're right, of course. We all live in our own private world of deception, allowing others no access. Like a field of fog, every man believes he is outside, because all about him is clear, but in reality he is just as deep in delusion as anyone. How will you ever know what my true motives are? But it doesn't matter. Your choice is between my side and a hospital bed- or worse."

"What do you want Dr. Bosconovitch for? Is it stem cells?"

Kazuya raised a brow in surprise. "Well, you know more than I gave you credit for. You're right again- it is about stem cells; but so much more. Let me explain."

"Is this the bit where the villain reveals all his plans. Rather cliché, isn't it?"

That smirk curled back into life. "Miguel, you attempt humour, but your anger shows. I'm glad you hate me. It will make the partnership that much more pleasing. But rest assured I will reveal only those plans that have already come to fruition. It would make no difference now if everyone in Tokyo knew."

"So, needless to say, the discovery of stem cell tech, by none other than the famous robotics expert Dr. Bosconovitch, has changed the war forever. The ability to heal soldiers in minutes has made munitions, arms, machines, troops and training all appear redundant virtually overnight. Any general who could utilise their abilities to the full would have already won the war. At least, that is how Jin Kazama sees it. But I, I have seen the potential for so much more."

He paused, then continued. "For me, this war has always been about the very same thing that my father started all those years ago when I was a child, and I became a demon. It's about the Devil Gene."

"What are you talking about?"

Kazuya's voice rose. "Imagine carrying in your veins the power of a demon. Well, I have a fragment of that power- the first, I believe, in all of history. I am more than human. I am faster, stronger, more astute than the most practised of masters. That is the nature of the Devil Gene. Until recently I assumed a person had to be born with it for it to operate. My father was the first to think otherwise, but so far his theory remains unproved- there are still only two carriers in existence. Myself… and Jin Kazama."

"In that case… you are Jin's father!"

"Indeed! Jin Kazama is, in reality, Jin Mishima. That is a fact that he can never escape, and this war is proof enough of just how close his allegiance is to the Mishima bloodline. He carries the same power that I carry. But soon… that may change."

"Do you understand stem cells, Miguel? They are natural to an extent. They appear in the human embryo as the unspecialised cells that soon divide and create every part of the human body. They are retained into adulthood in small numbers. Their ability to specialise makes them invaluable for healing. But I have seen something more."

"With the use of stem cells, it would be possible to create a serum that would physically carry the Devil Gene. Anyone under its influence would, for a few hours, be gifted with strength and skill beyond the reach of the most veteran martial artists; they would become masters in all forms of fighting, in accuracy, in precision, in technique. And all whilst next to invulnerable due to the healing power of stem cells. It would be the power to cripple nations in a single syringe. The power to end wars- this war. The power to defeat Jin Kazama. To defeat Heihachi. To defeat Devil himself. I would have that power."

"Unfortunately, though, stem cell tech is a hundred years at least ahead of its time. To synthesise such a serum would require the greatest thinker alive. Whether it be robotics or biology, the greatest thinker is Dr. Bosconovitch. You will bring him to me."

Miguel listened to all this with growing incredulity- yet the force of Kazuya's voice forbid disbelief. It was evident enough that Kazuya didn't judge because he didn't care; he didn't have the humility to lie about his own power. Miguel glanced at the man in the bed, at the thick muscles, and wondered how a simple race for revenge could have turned into all this.

"How would a serum help you," he managed to ask, "If you say you are already a carrier of the Devil Gene?"

Kazuya ignored the question. From his suit pocket he produced a thin black box. He handed it to Miguel, who took it cautiously. Inside was a syringe, a needle, and a tiny vial.

"What is it?"

"It is a concentrated form of the Devil Gene, taken from my own veins. If you inject it now, the power will last an hour at most- then you will die. But with stem cells, you could become a superhuman. It is yours to keep, should you accept my offer; find me Dr Bosconovitch and I will have him create a dose of serum for you. It will be your reward for your aid."

It took great effort for Miguel to tear his eyes from that tiny, innocuous vial; a vial that contained so much power. If he had any doubt as to the truth of this project, it was dispelled now.

"Do you accept my offer?"

He looked back to the vial. "Why would I want this?"

"To defeat Jin Kazama."

There was a long silence. Kazuya waited with the patience of a predator, unmoving; his red eye drilled into Miguel as he looked between it and the vial. He thought of his sister; he thought of the endless death too, but hers dominated his mind, her charred form appearing again and again until the box shook in his hands. He forced himself to calm.

"But… you said you would defeat Jin yourself. Both of us can't do it… so why should you give me the means?"

It seemed that Kazuya had been waiting for this. He stared into the Spaniard's eyes with cold assurance and said, "Earlier, I stated that each of us lives in our own world of deception. I call that into play again now. Of course I will kill Jin before you can; but you don't believe that, now, do you? You have given your life over to revenge for whatever relative you lost; that much is clear as day. I know from experience that when hatred reaches that peak, all thought of failure is banished. Whatever you tell yourself, you will still believe in your heart that your success is assured, because the alternative is simply unthinkable. So no, _I_ say that I will kill Jin before you, for I am more powerful than you whether you have the Devil Gene or not; but you, in your delusion, will believe otherwise. So do you accept?"

Miguel tried again to focus himself, to call on his years of hard decisions; of desperate decisions. But the only thing he could ever see was his dead sister.

"I accept."

Kazuya smirked that arrogant smirk. "Watch yourself on the street," he said; but Miguel had already left.

--

**End of Chapter 9 **

R&R please. I'm not sure myself what to make of this chapter. Some parts of it are much better than others. I'd especially like to know if the addition of the Devil Gene plotline seems a bit sudden, or too late in the fic. Personally I thought that, since the Devil Gene is so central an element of Tekken, I really had to include it to have a satisfying story going- hope it doesn't feel like I've just added it in because of lack of ideas (that isn't why). Also sorry this chapter is a little short. But if I'd added what happens in the next chapter to this one it would have been very long.


	10. War

Well so far I've proved about as trustworthy as a Communist lawyer, but I'm still going to insist that eventually my updating speed will improve. Just bear with me. If several years from now it idly occurs to you to wonder what happened to this story, I haven't given up. I'm just… thinking.

If I can give any excuse it's only that I got a bit preoccupied with a Star Wars fic I was doing called 'The Underlevels,' which is completed now.

**Disclaimer: Own nothing. **

Miguel, standing at the hospital entrance, cradled the vial between thumb and forefinger, feeling its coldness. Then he tucked it swiftly back into its case, put the case in his jacket, and headed off.

He didn't know whether he would use the vial; but he had known better to refuse it. As it was he knew he had made an enemy- whether he decided to go through with getting Bosconovitch or not. Kazuya would never accept him. He was too uncontrollable. He remembered briefly the fury in Kazuya's eyes; that flesh in the red lens, like searing hot lightning, and decided then and there that he wouldn't take the Doctor to Kazuya.

But what to do about the ninja? Miguel felt the weight of enmity crushing down on him from all sides, dulling his edge, distracting him. He resolved to get back in focus- to simply win, match after match, until he reached Jin. He no longer knew if that was his best chance; but it was the best one he could think of.

He didn't have long to consider it. He had only got about ten paces when he felt cold steel against the back of his neck. On instinct he froze.

His hands came up slowly.

"Money," said a tight Japanese voice, shaky with drugs and thrills.

"Sure," said Miguel, turning around carefully. The gun wavered, but when it didn't steady- the telltale sign that a shot was about to be fired- he dared to turn to face his attacker.

He was more or less a kid- twenty at most- and his darting eyes and shaking limbs suggested a cocktail of drugs were pumping through his veins; Miguel, coiled in every nerve, dared to test this by stepping forward a little.

The kid staggered backwards uncontrollably, then stumbled into a stream of shaky Japanese.

"Go away," said Miguel softly. "If you know what's good for you, go somewhere and lie down."

Then, before the kid, on his deadened instincts, could react, Miguel sprang in! Turning his hips to take himself out from under the trajectory of the gun, his left hand darted out, grabbing the barrel and twisting. The pistol came free easily; like a magic trick, the tables had been turned. Miguel gave his hapless attacker a swift, vengeful chop to the neck; the kid crumpled.

"What an amateur," Miguel thought, almost chuckling to himself as he examined the weapon.

It was a smooth piece, 9mm; a standard military-regulation pistol. Efficient, reliable, lethal- in the right hands, of course. A far cry from the weapons Miguel was used to seeing. Back in Spain, the most common tactic for acquiring a gun was to 'reactivate' a blank-firing weapon by drilling out the cartridge and inserting a live round. That was effective enough for protection; but a weapon like this was solid gold.

Which put him on edge.

No common thief would walk around with the equivalent of solid gold in his pocket. Not in Spain, not anywhere.

He wasn't a thief, and he wasn't alone.

Even as he realised the situation, Miguel could hear the sounds of others coming up the street, calling their buddy's name. As they walked under the light of a streetlamp he could see they all carried guns. One had a rifle.

Cursing under his breath, Miguel shoved the pistol into the pocket of his jacket and started to head off at pace. He cut quickly down an alley and was soon bordering on a jog. Had they seen him? He had been in shadow, he was sure, but was it enough? He imagined them splitting up and spreading out into the alleys. Would they all go after him and leave their partner? Probably- they hadn't minded leaving him alone before. How far would they follow?

At that moment he remembered the thief's eyes- the sweat, the stench, his quivering body. Miguel thought of the drugs and realised that, if one member of the group was anything to go by, none of them were in control enough to be predictable. He turned another left and carried straight on, almost running. A street loomed ahead and he made to cross it swiftly. But what he saw was unexpected enough to stop him in his tracks.

Directly in the centre of the road, a car had been set aflame, the heat and the brightness torturous in the dark, cool night. Huge yellow flames, undoubtedly fed by petrol, licked upwards, towering over the Spaniard by five or six feet like some monstrous beast.

Miguel, skidding to a halt, glanced swiftly around. From the glare of the flames- all the lamppost lights had been knocked out- it was possible to make out dark figures smashing the windows of houses; shouting, swearing, firing their guns; driving people from their homes and kicking and pistol-whipping them. No longer closed in by the street, the noise and the pandemonium bore down on him in its full intensity; Miguel didn't hesitate any longer, but rushed across the street and into another alley.

He was grabbed almost immediately.

As he felt deft hands drag him into a side-alley he swung, blindly. There was a block, but no return. Moving to capitalise, he spun round and stepped in.

"Wait!"

"Asuka!"

His hurtling fist stopped at the last second. Asuka breathed out deeply and hustled him over to a stack of boxes, which they crouched behind.

"Asuka? How did you find me?"

"I was looking for you," she said breathlessly, "I knew you'd gone to the Mishudo and… and…"

Whatever shock this sudden chaos had inflicted on Miguel, it had done worse to her. She was still in her school clothes; her face was smudged with dirt, and her hair clung to her skin; he could see her shaking.

"Why would you need to find me?"

"I didn't know who else to go to. I went home and my… my parents aren't there. I can't reach them at all. And on the streets… it's like a war zone. I didn't know what to do-"

Miguel impulsively put a hand on her arm in comfort. "I promise you they're alright." He smiled reassuringly. "If they're anywhere near as tough as you, they're in no danger."

He was rewarded by a faint smile of reply. She managed to nod.

"The important thing now is to get off the street," Miguel went on, "I'm going to find Lars- you heard me mention him to the ninja- and then hand over all responsibility to him as quick as I can. He'll know what to do. You'd better come."

She sighed in relief and, somehow at the same time, regained some of her former authoritativeness. Miguel relaxed as he saw the change. He would enjoy fighting through this with her, not least because he knew now that he wouldn't have to act as protector. They were equals again.

"Let's get going," said Miguel finally. "Lars is at the Mishudo. And let's hope we get there before someone else does."

--

Once, the hotel Mishudo had been a highly thought of location. Fabulous luxury, top-of-the-range accommodation, cuisine by the finest chefs- these were the things the hotel had come to be known for.

But the violence had turned it into a ruin, like all the rest. Its many storeys of windows were now smashed out. Flames burnt in some of them. Bullet holes riddled every surface, and the elegant glass doors had been turned to shrapnel. Outside, several jacketed men, armed with assault rifles, sat about like watchdogs.

Miguel inspected the desolation briefly, then turned away. "Let's go," he said to Asuka. "There's nothing here anymore."

"Hold on a second," she returned, peeking out from the street corner. "What if your friend's alive in there? You going to just leave him?"

Miguel shook his head. "It wouldn't matter. If he didn't escape before the fighting started he's either dead or captured. Or soon to be one of those. There's nothing we can do."

"You could mobile him."

"Not a chance- I'm not calling anyone until this chaos has died down. What if he's trying to escape at the moment? A phone ringing in that building, amongst armed thugs- some of whom I know from experience to be high on drugs- is asking for a massacre."

"Well, we have to do something!"

"It's hopeless!" Miguel stormed; then immediately relented. "Look," he said, "this is not what I wanted either. God knows how angry it makes me that all of this should happen because of a tournament. I hope Lars survived. But if he did, I can't risk my life for him. Not yet."

Asuka had been watching him strangely.

"What do you mean," she asked. "Not yet?"

"Where are the soldiers, anyhow?" said Miguel, ignoring her question. "When I arrived here there was a small army on the streets."

Asuka stepped back from the wall. "I think some of them may have joined these… these rioters, or whatever they are."

"Either that or they were wiped out."

At that moment a deafening explosion shook the ground. Tiny pieces of dust flew past the corner of the street. Miguel and Asuka ducked away from the noise in surprise as machine gun fire filled the air with sound.

"Looks like some of the soldiers are still for the Zaibatsu," said Miguel over the noise. "Now let's go."

"Where are we going? Not to the hotel?" Asuka was following along behind him, bent double. The gunfire and the explosions were so loud that their distance was impossible to place, and they seemed to come from all directions.

"No way," Miguel called back. "Seems the hotels were some of their targets. Failing that, there's only one other option I can think of."

The noise was quieter now, but the crack of shots still kept their heads down. They moved in silence for several minutes, hugging the street, tense with the prospect of ambush.

"You're thinking of making that meeting with the ninja, aren't you!" said Asuka suddenly. "Are you serious? You really believe he'll have turned out after this happened?"

"I don't know," replied Miguel grimly. "But I have a hunch."

--

By the time they reached the square where Miguel had fought Yoshimitsu, he and Asuka were paranoid with anxiety. Every new street they'd turned into revealed a nightmare of broken windows, of bloodstains, of mayhem. It was everywhere and unavoidable. Once they passed an old woman propped against a lamppost; dead or nearly dying, the sight of her contorted limbs and blood-covered face had stopped Asuka cold.

"Let's keep going," Miguel said quietly. "There's nothing we can do."

When Asuka went on staring, he tore his own eyes from the sight, took her arm and gently forced her to keep moving.

--

"No-one here," said Asuka, as they turned into the empty square. She folded her arms at Miguel. "I told you he wouldn't show after this happened!"

Miguel held up his hands. "It was all I could think of!"

In the background, the ever-present sound of gunfire cracked on-and-off, on-and-off. It was a sound you could never grow accustomed to. It made every muscle flinch, every time, without fail. In the relative silence of the park Miguel and Asuka could hear nothing else; they looked around cautiously, expecting at any moment for a hail of gunshots from all directions. Miguel found a bench and threw himself onto it in frustration, struggling to think through his anger and unease.

"Miguel?"

Miguel spun in his seat to see a black-costumed figure, wearing a sword. It wasn't Yoshimitsu.

"Who the hell are you?"

He stood up cautiously as the figure circled the bench. Asuka, who had been standing a little way off, had approached now and was in a stance. The newcomer surveyed the two of them briefly, then nodded as if in confirmation.

"My name's Ieyasu. Yoshimitsu sent me to collect you."

Asuka moved cautiously to Miguel's side. "How do we know we can trust you?" she demanded.

"You can't know," said Ieyasu simply. "But it's either come with me or stay out here one the streets."

Miguel felt a pressure that had been crushing down on him for some time began to fall away. The pressure of leadership.

"I trust you," said Miguel. "What about you, Asuka? He is carrying a sword."

Asuka dropped her stance, but her frown stayed. "Why would Yoshimitsu want to help Miguel? I thought he hated him."

Ieyasu nodded and smiled slightly. He seemed somehow impressed with her. "Because my master, Yoshimitsu, has a hunch as to who sent for you, Miguel. If he's right, you could be into something much larger than you realise. And… it means there's still a chance."

Asuka wavered for a second, then nodded. "Fine. We'll follow."

Ieyasu took off running without another word. They passed through a series of streets and alleys that must have been checked, because they were all empty; Miguel wandered if Ieyasu was being guided by a intercom. They hit another plaza and Ieyasu turned right, slowing to a fast walk. There were smashed windows here, a reminder that the violence was never far away. At the third building he stopped and opened the door into a simple landing with a flight of stairs.

"No chance of using the elevators, I'm afraid," said Ieyasu over his shoulder. "We're going to have to use the stairs. Floor ten."

Miguel was becoming suspicious again. As the noise of gunfire receded he could feel his senses starting to ask questions again.

They passed floor two. "What makes you think an apartment block is safer than anywhere else?"

Ieyasu glanced back. "It's a safehouse set up by our clan in the city."

Miguel scoffed. "Safehouse? Didn't you see that outside? It's as good as a war. Nowhere's safe."

"Yoshimitsu believes it is," Ieyasu replied. "And that's good enough for me. It always has been."

--

But Yoshimitsu didn't believe it.

Watching through a slit in the shutters, the ninja saw Ieyasu lead his two followers across the ruined plaza and into the door, just out of sight. He indicated to Leo, waiting at the door, but otherwise made no move.

Less than a minute later more figures appeared. There were fifteen at least.

One of them wore a purple suit.

**-- **

**End of Chapter 10 **

I have half the next chapter waiting in the wings so it should be up soon- though you've heard that before.


	11. Just as Planned

**Here we are again, and this chapter felt kind of odd to write. Anyway, here's hoping you enjoy it! **

**Disclaimer: Own nothing. **

--

Miguel and Asuka jostled through the doorway to room 5 directly into Yoshimitsu. Ieyasu, bringing up the rear, slipped in behind them. Miguel heard the door bump shut.

"Get in the closet," said Yoshimitsu instantly.

Miguel blinked. "Excuse me?"

Yoshimitsu pointed to where Leo was standing by the far wall. A slat, clearly thin enough to conceal the compartment's presence when closed, had been pressed open to slide back a section of the wall and reveal a walk-in partition.

"Get in the closet." He repeated.

Miguel looked from Leo to Ieyasu, then back to Yoshimitsu. His eyebrows came up. "Okay, so this must be some sort of ninja joke I don't understand. Hilarious."

Yoshimitsu didn't so much as smile. Miguel kept his condescending grin, but now he could feel the humour surging out of him as adrenaline once again started to pump. He glanced to Asuka. She was tight-lipped, waiting.

"What's happening here?"

"We'll explain everything later," said Ieyasu from behind them. "Just trust us for now."

He reached out to urge Asuka forward but she brushed his arm away. "Tell us what's going on here!"

The sound of footsteps on the stairs made Yoshimitsu visibly tense. Miguel was shrewd enough to know the action was involuntary, a fear response. He glanced back at the door of room five, now closed, and wondered what could be hid behind it, at that very moment.

"What do you think, Asuka?" His voice was a whisper. She thought for a moment, then clenched her jaw and nodded.

"Let's do it. If they'd wanted to do something they would have done it already."

"Good choice," said Yoshimitsu, relieved. "That may have just saved your life."

"Open up!"

The shout from outside made them all jump. Hands went to swords. Miguel saw the actions- saw the nervousness- and by instinct put a hand in his jacket, feeling the calming cold of the pistol barrel

"Ladies first," he said humourlessly. Asuka looked at him and, to his surprise, smiled thinly. There was a crescendo of banging and shouting now, and Yoshimitsu stood with one hand on the doorknob. He returned her smile without comment; the action on her part had baffled him, and he had no time to consider. He gestured and she clambered into the secret partition, and he followed her swiftly.

When the section slid back into place they were plunged into a claustrophobic darkness. The room was tiny, and Miguel had struggled to press himself in as the slat closed. The tight space forced him chest to chest with Asuka, who was already backed against the wall.

"Ah! Miguel! You're right on my breasts!"

Faced with her indignation he didn't know whether to laugh or cower. Instead he made some effort to disentangle his face from her hair.

"I'm sure the experience wasn't quite so terrible as you make it sound," he replied, finding room to step off her.

Miguel heard Asuka shuffle in the dark; possibly she had folded her arms. He smiled- it was so easy to picture. So like his sister had been.

"I only met you yesterday. Now I'm sharing a closet with you after almost getting killed. It's you, you know. How do you find this sort of trouble?"

He smiled to himself. "I'm sorry, my dear, but it seems that trouble has me electronically tagged."

"What's happening out there, anyway?"

"Let me just find the slat…"

Miguel, tracing the wall with his fingers, found the place where the section met the wall. The gap was so tiny it appeared not to let any light in. Pressing his eye against it gave him a hairline view of the room. In the darkness Asuka didn't see him tense.

"What's happening out there?"

"It's Kazuya."

"Let me see."

He felt her against his arm but didn't budge. Kazuya's ferocious form filled his narrow vision, the length emphasising him like a stage light. His corner-of-the-mouth smirk gazed out of view of the slat; by twisting, Miguel could just see Yoshimitsu's left side.

The conversation was already in full swing.

"Naturally I'm just honoured that you and your flunkeys have decided to come visit me, Kazuya, but I don't see the reason. Why would whoever you want be here? Looks like you've wasted a journey. Dangerous journey at that, considering… street violence has experienced such a sharp rise recently."

Kazuya threw him a bemused look. "Angling for information? I have no hesitation in telling you- because I imagine you've already guessed- that this entire thing is of my planning."

At that moment sudden darkness swamped Miguel's eyes, making him flinch and recoil. But it passed quickly.

Cautiously Miguel returned to his position of observation. Twisting as far as he could to the right revealed a slither of black fabric- a thug was directly in front of the compartment.

He returned his attentions to Kazuya, who was now looking to Yoshimitsu's side.

"Who's the guppy fish?"

The ninja glanced briefly in the same direction. "Don't gawp, Leo. It doesn't work on you."

Kazuya paused, then smirked suddenly. "Leo? Leo Kliesen? Ah yes… I believe I've heard the name."

From the hideaway Leo was out of sight; but from Kazuya's expression of cold delight Leo's could only have manifested sheer, violent loathing. Kazuya returned Leo's stare for some time, then turned nonchalantly away. Yoshimitsu shifted a little, clearly frustrated, as Kazuya disappeared from view.

"What's the point of this, anyway?" Yoshimitsu queried, "For a guy of your intellect it seems awfully stupid. What does it achieve?"

"Well," came Kazuya's voice, "firstly, the violence is sure to give me more or less total control of the media. But also- more importantly- it makes it much easier to weed out the dissidents."

He came back into sight with a memory stick glinting in his hand. There was a flare of anger behind the cold control of the eyes. "Things like this," he said, holding the memory stick in view, "are the reason that so many leaders of history have failed. When I take command once more there will be no such rebellion."

Yoshimitsu shifted tersely; the tension was evident just from his stance. "You talk like you've already won this tournament."

This time there was only the slightest smirk in reply. Kazuya gave one final glance to his left, presumably at Leo, then started to walk for the door. "If you truly refuse to give him up… I suppose I'll have to settle for you two. This memory stick should be all I need to make an arrest- shall we say predictable? After all, the police will probably be interested in dissidents after the tragic events of tonight."

He gestured to his thugs. "Now are you going to come quietly?"

"_Not today!_"

The thug closest to the compartment barely had time to spin before Miguel, erupting from his hiding place, struck him a savage blow to the neck. He toppled like a bowling pin. At the same instant, Yoshimitsu, acting with breathtaking recklessness, threw himself at the second thug. His adversary, reeling in surprise, brought up his gun, but the ninja turned the barrel away and delivered a straight kick to the chest that crashed him to the ground. As he fell Yoshimitsu tore the weapon from his hands.

In a matter of seconds Kazuya found himself outnumbered five to one. Ieyasu, who with similar cunning had flanked him during the fight, closed the door and stood ready, sword drawn. Before him stood Asuka, Miguel, Yoshimitsu and Leo, fanning into a tight half-circle. One by one he observed their hatred and smiled.

"What now? A fight? To what end?"

Miguel recalled his conversation with Kazuya that very same day; the image of the red eye, piercingly angry, weighed on his mind and he held back. Just as he had over the hospital bed, Kazuya stood tall and straight, arms folded. The five of them watched him cautiously but moved no closer.

"Give back the memory stick," said Yoshimitsu finally, breaking a fierce silence. "Even you couldn't take us all on."

"Perhaps so," Kazuya agreed. "But how do I know you won't simply attack me as I leave?"

"Why would we want to?" said Miguel suddenly.

He hadn't intended to speak. But faced with this figure of pure brooding chaos it was the simplest explanation that could be given. What indeed could they hope to gain from such a fight? The Spaniard thought briefly of the carnage this man had inflicted tonight already. He thought of the dying old woman, her broken body bleeding against the wall of her house. He thought of all that violence and wondered if a little more would make any difference whatsoever, and started to lower his stance. Asuka, watching him, begrudgingly followed suit.

Kazuya seemed satisfied by this answer. He grinned, said "Why indeed?" and put one hand on the doorknob. Taking the memory stick from his pocket, he tossed it to Yoshimitsu.

"It makes no difference anyway. The person I wanted isn't here." His gaze moved to Miguel. "See you in the finals, Spaniard."

As Kazuya began to open the door, Miguel caught a rush of movement from the corner of his eye- suddenly he was swaying and staggering away, and cursing himself for his lack of awareness. But it was too late.

Kazuya, with one hand still on the doorknob, turned back slowly but didn't so much as flinch- even as the barrel of the pistol Leo had snatched from Miguel's jacket came level with his chest.

"Fire that gun and there'll be ten or twenty armed men down here in a millisecond. I would love to see that fight-"

"You wouldn't be alive to see it," Leo hissed; but Kazuya shook his head and leered.

"I would survive. I have survived things you cannot imagine."

The hands on the pistol shook with rage. "Are you daring me to shoot?"

"I am indeed. It would fill me with joy to see the look on your face as you pull that trigger."

Leo was like a taut wire. Every part of him was shaking. A nerve twitched in his locked jaw, and as his eyes narrowed he took on an image of almost animalistic viciousness.

"You killed my mother."

His finger came to rest on the trigger, but Kazuya's smirk didn't so much as waver. "I did."

"Think about what you're doing, Leo," said Yoshimitsu, in a tone that was half command, half plea. All eyes were on the boy now, tensed for the crack of the gun, barely daring to breathe. Kazuya alone was unshaken.

"Shoot me," he said suddenly. "Go on- it would be such an honest revenge. _I_ would do it. By now you would be dead. Why are you waiting?"

"Give me the gun," Miguel demanded, holding out a hand; but without movement there was nothing to back his words.

"Leo, we all want something here." That was Asuka. "But you can't take this now! If you fire we're… we're all going to die." Leo glanced at her but didn't shift; the gun in his hands seemed to shake now of its own accord, as though struggling to fire itself, to rip flesh and organs. A bead of perspiration dripped from his chin.

Asuka stepped forward.

"Don't move!" Leo cried, and suddenly the gun swung on her; she froze.

Kazuya, standing straight as ever, chuckled at the sight. The gun immediately swung back to face him. The hammer began to creep back.

"Fire," Kazuya dared, "just fire. I promise you I will live- whatever you want to believe."

"You'd die like anyone else! You _will_ die! You wanna test that?"

"I would be happy to. When you have seen what I have, death loses its brutality. To me it's just another lie of many. I know I will survive."

"I will shoot!"

"Put the gun down," said Miguel again, fiercely. But even Leo sensed the note of desperation.

"Give it to me," Miguel repeated- always the same words. "Give me the gun. Don't think about what he's saying."

Under Miguel's gaze Leo wavered, and the hammer crept back into the lock.

"That's it," said Miguel, encouraged. "You're disoriented. Now hand it over." He reached out a hand.

"You haven't got much of a chance left," Kazuya mocked. "Think of your poor mother!"

The gun came back up, forcing Miguel to step back- he had been just inches from Leo's shoulder.

"What about my men?" Kazuya continued. "They will be back soon. Then you will be dead regardless."

"Listen to me Leo, for Gods sake!" Yoshimitsu cried. "If you've ever listened to me, listen to me now! If you pull that trigger we're all going to die! Against twenty armed men… we don't have a chance. You're going to kill us all! Is that what your mother wanted? Is it, Leo?"

"Ah, the responsibility argument," Kazuya pondered. "How interesting. Will you listen, Leo? You will never have this chance again."

"We could escape," said Leo faintly, "we would escape…"

There were noises now from outside the door- people descending stairs. Kazuya, smirking as ever that infernal smirk, put one hand back on the doorknob, his impassive eyes never leaving Leo's. A person outside called his name.

"Last chance." he said, softly. "If you're still thinking about shooting. If you're still deliberating… I want you to know something. I killed her myself. Personally. I killed her with my bare hands."

There was a flinch of movement, and a click, faster than a blink.

Miguel threw out his hand and grabbed the barrel of the pistol, using it as a lever to twist it from Leo's grip. As it slid free the hammer fell back into place, its dull click almost a lament that it hadn't had the momentum to cause a shot.

The gamble over, Miguel allowed himself to breathe out. Leo stood there, shocked, for a full second, then threw himself at Miguel; but Yoshimitsu and Asuka, anticipating it, had stepped forward and grabbed him. He fought them, quietly and furiously.

Miguel threw Kazuya a dark look- a look of unbridled enmity- and Kazuya returned it with the red eye hot as blood.

"Get out," Miguel muttered. "Get out now or _I'll_ shoot you. And you know I would."

Kazuya only nodded. "Very well. You won't see me again tonight. But after that… I would be somewhere else. You know, after all, that you've made an enemy here."

"Oh yes. Willingly"

To this Kazuya only nodded once more, swung the door open, and left. The room was silent.

"Great," said Yoshimitsu grimly. "Just great." He looked around the room briefly. "Now… what are we gonna do with these thugs?"

--

The remainder of the night passed in uneasy silence. Yoshimitsu hit the net, surfing constantly, neither speaking or moving. In his own mind he kept turning over the attack, trying to make sense of it. Kazuya's explanation didn't hold up- it had been a move out of all proportion or expectation, and its mysteriousness galled him. At one point Miguel approached him.

"Shouldn't we be leaving? Kazuya is sure to come back at some point tonight."

"Nah," replied Yoshimitsu, without looking round. "Kazuya's a lot of things, but he's honest. He'll keep his promise. We'll be out by tomorrow."

"An honest psycho?" Miguel chuckled. "At least that's something." There was a moment's awkward silence as Miguel hesitated.

"Thanks for helping us," he said finally, with no little effort. Yoshimitsu shrugged in response.

"It wouldn't have helped to let you get killed. Besides… you know Lars Alexandersson. I need his help."

"You think Lars was who Kazuya was looking for?"

Yoshimitsu glanced up from the computer screen and raised his eyebrows. "You know any other rebel leaders in the city?"

"True. By the way… I want you to know that what I said on the street still stands. I didn't cheat my way to that win. Whatever Bruce did, I had nothing to do with it."

For a moment something of their old animosity surfaced, and Miguel felt his muscles tense in the familiar preparation for combat. But Yoshimitsu returned his gaze to the computer screen. "It doesn't matter now. The important thing is that if Lars is operating in the city with you, we may still have a chance. I need to know everything that has occurred to you since you arrived in Tokyo, right up to that meeting tonight."

Miguel, sat on the bed, allowed himself a moment of thought. The situation he now found himself in was, he was grimly aware, exactly what he had feared. He was a soldier now as much as a contestant. It had finally come true. The war truly was his business now; and, much as it sickened him to admit it, he wasn't surprised that it had happened this way.

"Fine." He said eventually. "I'll tell you all I know. But remember one thing- I would never have entered this tournament except to get to Jin Kazama. I'll help you if I can; but don't try and stop me."

Meanwhile, Leo sat on the bed, clutching his hands together- they wouldn't stop shaking. Asuka noticed, and sat by him.

"It's ok," she said gently. "You'll get him someday. I promise, you'll get him."

He looked at her and forced a smile. "Thanks."

She smiled back, then put a reassuring hand on his wrist. "What did he do to you? Do you want to talk about it?"

"He killed my mother. At least… he organised it."

"I'm so sorry."

"You don't have to be sorry." He looked back at his lap. "It's just that until I saw him today, I was sure all I wanted was justice. Then when I saw him… all I could think about was killing him- pumping bullets into his body again and again, and watching him fall. I guess… I guess I never realised I hated him so much."

"I understand. I know what it feels like to lose someone."

He looked at her, surprised. "I'm sorry. That must have sounded so selfish- I didn't realise he'd killed someone you knew too."

"It wasn't him… it was the war. At least I think it was."

"So you don't know he's dead? That's something."

"He's not dead." She closed her eyes. "But he might as well be."

--

At six in the morning Yoshimitsu put on the T.V. A broadcast had been announced for ten minutes ago, but so far there was only static- most channels were already out. The five of them sat round the screen in tense silence. Then, at six-thirty A.M, they picked up a live feed of Jin Kazama himself, speaking from the MFE headquarters. At that time he shocked the world by announcing that, despite the 'riots'- despite all that had happened and all who had died- the King of Iron Fist Six would continue. Just as scheduled.

--

**End of Chapter 11**

**Any good? I'd especially like feedback on the point where Leo pulls the gun on Kazuya? Tense? Tell me you thought he's do it…**

**Oh yeah, and I was thinking of changing the story summary to be more in line with what's actually going on now it's developed a little. Anyone got any suggestions on what I should include (because I suck at summaries)?**


	12. Sides

Hey, its's me and I'm still alive. Guess I'll have to say sorry again. Or I could not. Yeah! Take that! Anyway, I'll have to go on a pretty long hiatus soon because of my GCSE's in May/June (congrats, if you're British you now know my age). But hopefully since it's Easter I can still make it up to the point I intended.

**Disclaimer: Own nothing. **

"Bastard," breathed Christie, glaring. "That bastard."

On the screen, Jin stared silently into her for several more seconds before turning to static.

"_Bastard_."

At that moment Lars emerged from the other room, rubbing his shoulder. "It is truly incredible," he said, "how uncomfortable a watch spent on a couch can be. Did you sleep well?"

"Did you hear that?"

Christie continued to stare hatefully into the static, speaking almost to herself. "Jin said he's going to let the tournament continue. After everything that happened last night…"

"Astonishing," Lars stated savagely. "How does that man sleep at night?"

"He doesn't care," Christie went on, "he never cared. I don't think he values human life at all."

Silence fell. Lars considered speaking but Christie's face was so dark and bitter that he decided against it. The ferocity of her anger was, in fact, startling; he couldn't help wondering how much she hid behind the normally nonchalant, superficial exterior.

"Bruce has left," he said finally. "He went just a few hours ago. Says he has business."

"I'm betting he'll rat us out."

"That wouldn't make sense, considering he brought us here. Or, well-" he smiled in spite of himself. "_You_ brought us here. Thank you for saving us, Christie. Bruce too, but- heh- me especially. I'm lucky you appeared when you did."

"I can't take all the credit. After all it wasn't exactly a heroic act. I had just found you when it turned out that- what do you know?- the whole city's gone to war. And to be honest I had no idea if my hotel was safe or not."

He braced. "Hold on… this is just your hotel room?"

She gave a pert, affirmative tilt of the head. "That's taking risks for you."

"Suddenly I feel less grateful."

She laughed despite herself. Not very enthusiastically he went on:

"Since last night I've had reports that the city is split in two. The… rioters, or whatever they are… have taken over small pockets of the city, shooting at anyone trying to enter. The MFE troops still control the most vital areas, but there's no way of knowing the numbers on either side. Regardless, my men have found us a suitable location for an HQ in an unclaimed area."

Christie sat up on her elbows. "HQ? Last time I checked we were contestants, not combatants."

"This is a war," said Lars simply. "There are no innocent civilians- you saw that last night. No one is safe, least of all non-combatants. It's time to choose a side."

"I've always had a side," she snapped. "You think I-"

Lars' mobile went off. He waved her quiet and picked up, hastily retreating back out into the main room.

Christie was left with her resentment.

Seeing Jin on air, daring to give them apologetics about the tragedy- having the sheer insolent gall to look the whole city in the eye and say he regretted what had happened, but the tournament must go on, it was too important to too many people- had awakened in her more hatred than she knew she had. The joy of seeing Eddy again was a memory now, awfully distant; somehow it could never bridge the gap between the city of then and the city of now. After all, when she had seen him there was just a tournament. Now there was war. And it was Jin's fault- unarguably his fault. It was just another of his atrocities.

And an atrocity it was.

When they had escaped that hotel last night, leaping, the three of them, from the first storey window, sneaking quietly away, they had left people behind. People who were destined to burn to death in the fires, or be taken as hostages, or shot by stray bullets. And for Jin to just stand in front of a camera and apologise…

Lars re-entered, ripping her from her thoughts and alerting her of the tingling pain in her hands. She realised she had been clenching them- her fingernails had ripped into her palms and she relaxed them gently.

If Lars had noticed this he gave no sign.

"That was an associate of mine. Miguel. We're going to meet up with them in half an hour and make for the HQ."

"And I guess you're expecting me to come?"

"It's that or stay here."

She forced a smile. "Well you sure know how to keep a girl."

--

It was a strange gathering- the seven of them sitting round that metal table, silent, wrapped up in their thoughts. It felt vastly insignificant- there was nothing to suggest that their decisions would impact the whole of Japan, the whole of the world. When they finally started to speak, each giving their story in turn, there was no indication of the influence their actions would soon carry. They were just words.

After over an hour they came all the way round the table. The six others watched Yoshimitsu silently; as he took a sip from a glass of water he looked back at each of them in turn, noting fingers drumming on the table, hair being brushed back. Nervous twitches. He wondered how many of them fully comprehended the seriousness of the conversation they would soon have. He waited several seconds more, choosing his words, then began:

"Okay. We've given our stories, right up to arriving at Lars' base here. Now we all know what we're looking at. If anyone's had some sort of special revelation let's hear it, because to me… Zaibatsu stock buy-ups; a plan to take Tokyo more elaborate than a tycoon's dinner party; and, finally, trying to recruit other tournament members to help him in his plans. To me it looks like-"

"Like Kazuya doesn't believe he can win the tournament," Lars finished.

Yoshimitsu nodded. "Exactly. And failing that, he's looking for other ways to take the Zaibatsu- and found one, it seems. It's the stem cells. With that alone he's won the war, but with this Devil serum he's more than just unstoppable. He'll be… like a God."

Ieyasu held up a hand. "Hold on a second. We don't even know this serum exists. Kazuya could be bluffing."

Yoshimitsu shook his head grimly. "It exists. I've fought Kazuya in previous tournaments. Believe me, it's real. Besides, it's immaterial. With the stem cells he's won. If it goes, the war's still up in the air. Presumably- hopefully- Jin and the MFE will win by attrition."

"So wait a minute," Christie interrupted suddenly, "your grand plan is to fight to just keep the war going? To hope Jin can win 'by attrition'?"

"At the moment we're just stalling for time," Ieyasu said. "If Kazuya gets the power of that serum he's won the tournament and the war- and we've as good as lost."

"I guess…"

There was a colossal bang on the table. They all looked round. The bang had been Asuka's fist- now she had had stood up with force, a look somewhere between fear and resolve crossing her face. She looked directly at Yoshimitsu with a stare that said explicitly her disbelief about their scheming.

"Forget this! What about my parents? They could be dead!"

Lars, who had been silently thoughtful throughout, now looked up with irritation, as though wondering how she could dare interrupt. "We'll deal with that once we're finished with this."

Asuka looked at him with undisguised disbelief. "Aren't you listening? They could be in trouble! I can't just sit here on my ass while God knows what happens to them-"

Lars slammed his palm onto the table, silencing her. He was angry. "We are considering the fate of the world here, Asuka, and that isn't an overestimation. Yoshimitsu and I have sacrificed more for your safety, and everyone's safety, than you can imagine. We aren't here for selfish reasons. I've lost men to this war already. Maybe your parents are dead… in that case they're just two more casualties-" He stopped, his own words seeming to surprise him. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for."

Miguel spoke up before Asuka could reply. "I will go with you, Asuka. The League of Gentlemen don't need me here."

His speaking seemed to shock and comfort her at the same time. As he stood up to follow her she breathed deeply, and her shoulders sagged. They left; Yoshimitsu alone noted the silent "thanks" she mouthed to him. Then he leant his elbows on the table, addressing all of them.

"Here's the plan. We use Bruce Irvin's intel to get us into the research centre. Once inside we rob the place and then trash the place. Kazuya's new conflict in the city, ironically enough, should prevent them tracking us down afterward."

Lars raised a brow. "That's it?"

"That's it. Something wrong?"

Now it was Lars who leaned forward. "I'm sure you realise your plan leaves a vast amount to chance. We have no idea what stage of development Kazuya's stem cell tech is at. He could have only a few samples close to perfected, or they could already be in mass production for military use. There could be thousands of units of it on ice. And why should it all be in one centre- right here in Japan, no less?"

"Bruce assures me it's all here."

Lars nodded doubtfully. "True. But after speaking with Bruce today I have to agree with Miguel- Bruce Irvin doesn't seem like the most trustworthy of people."

"Even so… it's the only chance we've got."

"Hate to throw an Asuka," said Christie suddenly "but… I'm sorry. I'm not here to help with the war. That's not on my shoulders and I don't want it to be. I'm here for my grandfather."

She turned to Lars. "Eddy told me you could help- said you'd know where to find Dr. Bosconovitch. And I stand by that. I'm sorry… but this isn't my war. If you can't help me I'll have to go someplace else."

Yoshimitsu was about to speak but Lars interrupted. "Wait. Earlier… did you say Bosconovitch was kidnapped- from an MFE base in East Asia?"

Christie gave him a confused look. "That's right."

Lars was no longer listening to the conversation. His distant stare was back. Without meeting any of their gazes he stood up, took out his mobile, and left.

Ieyasu made a bemused gesture. "That was polite."

But Yoshimitsu showed no sign of recognition of the humour. He felt like Christie had sown a seed of doubt in him that would never be uprooted. For the first time he felt the weight of the odds against them, a reality so long put on hold. If even now no one would stand together against this threat… what chance did they have?

"Christie…" he said quietly, "can't you see that this war is everyone's business now? Can you even picture what it would be like with Kazuya as dictator? As God?"

Christie could only nod again. "I understand. And I know how frustrating it must be that, even now, on the brink of conquest, us hopeless little humans seem just as self-oriented as ever. But this isn't something I have a choice over. I made a promise to save my grandfather and I intend to keep it. Until I've done that… I can't give you any help at all."

Abruptly Lars reappeared in the doorway. The mobile was still in his hand.

"I've just made a few calls to my detachments in East Asia. When I met Miguel for the first time I had just captured a research facility, along with an 'old man' there. Guess what. He is Dr. Bosconovitch. I've had him under guard all this time."

--

For Bruce, rain outside the wet season was obscurely prophetic; but then he was superstitious to the core. That was the effect that a life like his had on a man. It was the effect of surviving a plane crash in the mountains; of living off the meat of those less lucky; of being saved by G Corporation from the middle of nowhere.

When a person had experienced enough coincidences, it was only natural to assume there were no coincidences at all.

It was on that account that, even though Kazuya had finally arrived (late, as was his right), one darting eye continued to watch the gathering storm clouds. The other eye was on his boss, climbing from the limousine, followed by two armed thugs.

"You're late," said Bruce. "I had to wait here expecting to be gunned down by the first of your cronies to see me. Discriminating friend from foe isn't their greatest talent."

Either Kazuya wasn't thinking of the hundreds, maybe thousands, of dead innocents, or he didn't care. "They know your appearance," he said coolly. "Let's walk."

They descended down an alley. This was one of the shadier areas of town- once. Now the graffiti-strewn walls and doorways, once lined with drugs and prostitutes, were as empty a place as the rest of the city. Indeed, their pas worthlessness had spared them the worst of the violence.

"I have infiltrated Lars' rebel Tekken force. He will work against us with Yoshimitsu and the Manji party- of that I'm almost certain."

"Any news on their plans?"

It took no effort of will at all to decide to lie. "None yet."

"What about their numbers?"

"No."

"Allies? I am sure there are contestants in the tournament who know what is happening."

"I'm afraid no."

They paused, right in the heart of the alleys. Here they were isolated enough that the ever-present gunfire was just distant, barely audible pops.

Kazuya paused, hands behind his back. The red eye flashed obliquely. A drop of rain, obviously the first of many, fell onto Bruce's cheek.

"That's it, then."

Bruce raised a brow. "It? What do you mean?"

"That's all. There's nothing more you can do."

As ever, it seemed, Bruce's innate paranoia was confirmed. As the rain began in earnest he noticed that Kazuya's bodyguards had moved to block the other exits from the alley. Instinctively he started to edge towards a door set into a recess on his left.

"Kazuya," he said slowly, "why did you bring us into these alleys?"

"To dispose of you," said Kazuya simply. "That is one of the advantages of holding the city. I can freely dispose of failures."

"I have infiltrated the group," he offered haplessly. Kazuya was advancing on him now, slowly, and he felt fear rising. "I am on the inside. You need me!"

"I _don't _need you," hissed Kazuya, "I am offended by the very prospect of needing such an insipid creature. You have done nothing but fail. You failed to bring Miguel to me. You failed to stop Yoshimitsu the night he raided the warehouse. And now you say you have nothing for me except the empty promise of later reward, should Lars finally trust you. You have failed, and today you lied as well."

Abruptly there was wet chipped paint scratching his back, and Bruce stopped dead. He struggled for words but fear had paralysed him like a cornered animal. Kazuya had taken off his jacket and handed it to the thugs. The rain was heavy now, highlighting his horrendous chest scars.

Kazuya flexed his massive frame and stepped to within striking distance. "I am going to kill you with my bare hands. Just as I have killed so many failures. I always preferred close combat. There is a connection, you know."

There was a smirk on his face that knew no remorse and no pity.

"A connection with your opponent. You can feel all the damage you inflict right through the hands- the bones grinding and breaking, the skin splitting against them. But then, I imagine you know that."

Bruce's mouth curled into an involuntary snarl, revealing the pointed teeth. "I'm not going to be killed by you!"

The fists came up. "Your only hope is to fight back. Connect."

"_No!"_

Spinning, Bruce slammed himself against the door with the weight of panic. It buckled- wood chips flew into the rain- then Bruce was gone fleeing.

Rushing through the tiny home, the Thai kickboxer sighted a window and leapt through it. Slipping and stumbling, he rushed down an alley, turning left, right, then left again, his momentum bouncing him off the walls in the driving rain.

"You cannot _escape_!"

Kazuya erupted from the rain and darkness like a demon, following in with a lightning left-right punch. Bruce staggered and blocked, but the right blow glanced his cheek. Kazuya's fist was like a lump of iron. Ignoring the pain the kickboxer struck back, leaping into a left knee strike followed by a high kick. Kazuya spun in the rain, blocking the kick and circling. Two more blows followed and Bruce wavered under their speed.

A feint! Bruce threw himself left just in time to avoid a ferocious downward kick from shoulder to thigh- Kazuya's heel impacted a dustbin just behind where he had been standing and crushed it like a piece of tin foil. Without thinking Bruce launched himself back into the fight, swinging his knees up in a flurry of moves. Kazuya blocked effortlessly- but wasn't quick enough for the low kick that swept him from his feet.

Then he was off again, without hesitation, sprinting down the narrowing alley. In the blinding rain all he could see now was the graffiti, offensively bright in the wet greyness, leering at him. He thought he heard Kazuya leap back to his feet and break into a sprint but he didn't dare look back. Turning into a side alley he leapt high- his fingertips just caught the gutter and his muscles strained with the effort of pulling him up. After what seemed like an eternity his feet touched the roof and he slid over the top into the street on the opposite side.

Quiet.

For a second he could only lie there, listening to his blood pumping, feeling the rain drench him. An animalistic blend of fear and hatred had been awakened in him and for a second he revelled in the feeling. When Kazuya had said he would kill him…

"You are faster than I gave you credit for." Kazuya emerged from the shadows. From the ground Bruce looked on him with the disbelief that prey gives predator.

"It would have been ironic if your first success had been in running away, but I'm afraid I can't allow it."

Bruce lay there, panting, glaring.

"Now get up and fight."

He didn't. With bestial speed he leapt onto his feet, feinted forwards then darted right. From his peripheral vision he saw Kazuya prepare to defend himself from the feint- then smirk as he dodged past him. A second terrace loomed and again he vaulted, catching the gutter as before and dragging himself over the roof. This time he dropped and didn't pause, but ran the few steps straight across the alley and jumped for the next gutter.

A ferocious sound made him pause. Behind him Kazuya roared as he crashed through a door in the alley, sending it flying front-over-back into the wall beside him. Desperately Bruce tried to claw his way up but Kazuya grabbed his leg and ripped him from the gutter, directly into a savage knee to the gut. Bruce gasped in pain, twisting from the blow; Kazuya grabbed his vest to pull him into a headbutt, but the fabric tore in his hands and dumped him against the wall.

Bruce sat against the wall, making no attempt to defend himself; in agony, yet glaring, teeth bared, unafraid. Water from the broken gutter gushed down on him, lacquering the pointed teeth and running off the angular face.

Kazuya, arms folded, watched him with an expression of something like interest.

"Get up and try and fight then."

The kickboxer's muscles tightened. With lightning speed he flew up into a roundhouse kick to the jaw; yet Kazuya, seemingly anticipating the move, stepped in right, batting the blow away with one forearm at the same time as the other connected with the weakest point of Bruce's hip. Bruce screamed- attempted an inept knee strike. Kazuya cupped his hand over the knee, absorbing the force, and at the same time low-kicked him straight into the nerve-centre of the thigh.

He crumbled back into the streaming water.

Four more times Bruce staggered up and threw himself at Kazuya, and every time Kazuya effortlessly put him back to ground with blows aimed to deliver maximum pain. During that time Bruce felt the animalistic surge he had first experienced begin to fade- on the final attempt, with Kazuya's elbow connecting with his temple, something snapped in him as the immediacy of his own death suddenly became clear. All the fight left him and he slumped back against the wall.

Kazuya must have sensed the change, because he stepped back. He could almost have been disappointed.

"Given up?"

"No more," Bruce coughed.

"Is that all you can manage? In honesty I had expected you to be stronger- to at least make me try…"

"No more."

"You are no fighter."

"Please… no more…"

The two thugs, from their exhaustion seeming to have only just caught up, appeared from a connecting street. Kazuya waved them still.

"Have mercy."

During the fighting the other strap of Bruce's vest had snapped, revealing his battered torso. Kazuya reached down and grabbed Bruce by the throat. This elicited a wave of desperate cries:

"Pleas have mercy on me! Please, Kazuya! Please don't!"

Before this display of weakness Kazuya felt himself repulsed; his anger showed despite himself.

"Stop begging, you filth! You can die with some level of dignity even if you didn't live with it!"

"Please don't kill me, Kazuya! I beg of you!"

This was too much for Kazuya to bear. His fist had been raised but he dropped it now, throwing Bruce back against the wall in utter revulsion.

For the first time now, Bruce saw Kazuya without his mask of emotionless. Behind it was a look of pure disgust.

"Pitiful." There was repulsion in Kazuya's voice, yet almost regret as well. "All so pitiful."

Then, to his thugs:

"Take this coward to one of the contested zones and give him a gun. He can fight the MFE with the other nobodies."

Endless relief and a bitter hatred surged into Bruce and embedded itself in his heart before blackness engulfed him

**--**

**End of Chapter 12 **

**Please review if you read it, even if it's just a few words to tell me whether you liked it or not. I'd especially like to know if you enjoyed the Kazuya/Bruce thing at the end. Also, is everyone still following? I'm aware the plot is in danger of becoming overcomplicated. **


	13. A well founded hatred

**Well, like I said, I hadn't given up, I was just thinking. Sorry that bit always takes so long. Anyway I'm back again after some tiresome exams and I hope you'll forgive a rather up-and-down fic so far. As it gets further in the pace will speed right back up again. **

**Quick recap: **

**All the major players are now together, except Christie, who refuses to become involved. Miguel and Asuka have gone to try and locate Asuka's parents amidst the chaos of the conflict. A military-style raid on the lab where Kazuya is believed to be storing his stem cell tech is planned for that night.**

**Meanwhile, Kazuya, grown weary of Bruce's lies and his inability to achieve results, has brutally beaten him and sent him into the war, hoping never to cross paths with him again.**

* * *

"Whisky?"

It wasn't a Spaniard's traditional choice of drink, but Miguel needed one.

"So how'd it go? You find Asuka's parents?"

Despite his best efforts, Miguel was struggling to pay attention. He wanted that whisky, and then he wanted sleep. The day had been too long.

"It made me think of needles and haystacks," he said shortly, "but yes, we found them. The MFE troops have set up… camps. Like refugee camps. They must have evacuated tens of thousands from all over the city."

Yoshimitsu grimaced.

"That can't be good. Refugee camps aren't generally equated with good living conditions."

"Better than being dead."

"True."

Marginally more relaxed, the ninja poured himself a perhaps needlessly large drink. "So Asuka's folks were fine?"

"As fine as they could be… no, that's a lie."

"What do you mean?"

Miguel shuffled.

"She suspects her mother has been raped."

The ninja's eyes darkened- for a second he looked terrible, furious, vengeful.

"God… she's sure, right? Does she know for certain?"

"I don't know how she can tell, but she seems sure. We could only see them for a few minutes."

"God. This fucking war."

"She could be wrong."

"But you're not convinced she is?"

"No."

Miguel's glass forgotten, Yoshimitsu drifted into the wide window frame and pulled himself into it, staring silently into the empty streets. Really, Miguel thought, there was no justification for their taking such an unnecessary risk as to be using the penthouses above which their new HQ was situated, but with such chaos and hatred outside it was difficult to imagine a mere observer would be noticed. Besides, if they hadn't looked they wouldn't have found the liquor.

"Will Asuka be on the mission tonight?"

"Yeah."

Miguel sighed. "Any idea why she has such a death-wish?"

"Damned if I could guess."

Comfortable silence returned. Miguel, sank into the couch, felt he could just close his eyes and be instantly asleep. He wanted to. He'd spent a day reading lists of names from boards; at flinching at ever-present gunshots; and forever looking over his shoulder, expecting armed thugs to swamp the street. The day had truly been too long- and it looked set to be the first of many. He thought of the glass waiting on the table, but he was too comfortable to get up. His eyes were sinking closed.

"You know," said Yoshimitsu suddenly, "It's really about time you asked her out. You may not have any more chances."

Miguel tensed. "You mean Asuka?"

"Of course I mean Asuka." The ninja leant back into the window frame; his relaxed form gave an impression of honest innocence. "You shouldn't deny what you know you want, Miguel. It's bad for you. You don't need to make excuses, or pretend."

Miguel shrugged noncommittally. He'd known this question was there for some time but even now he didn't want to answer it. Like everything else, Asuka was a thought that came behind Jin Kazama; and Jin was the thought he would die with. Nothing else mattered.

"It would never work," he said dismissively.

"Why not?" Yoshimitsu raised a probing brow. "You're allowed to look after yourself, y'know. And… I think she likes you."

"She likes me as a brother."

"Or maybe more."

"I must be seven or eight years older than her."

"So?"

"You think that'd look good, me picking her up from high school?"

"Why not? This is Japan. No fetish is too extreme."

"How that's convinced me."

"I'm just saying."

Miguel sighed. However much he hated it, he could see the logic in Yoshimitsu's position.

"Y'know, I've felt the need for revenge too. I know what it's like. But the only thing to do is to try and feel something else, or it'll swallow you up."

"Why do you care so much, anyway?" Miguel snapped.

The ninja paused for a moment. Finally he went on, "You know I've been in six tournaments, right? That sounds great- sounds like fun. But in reality, the first tournament began because Heihachi wanted to prove he was the best, and his son, Kazuya, took vengeance on him. And in tournament 2, Heihachi returned the favour. And that's how it's gone on. For over twenty years I've seen nothing but revenge. It's everywhere. I've grown up with it, and I know what it does to people. So I just want you to know that you don't have to put up with it hanging over you if you don't want it. No-one's making you live with it."

"That's ok," said Miguel coldly. "Because I'm hoping I'll die with it. Your story is cute, but like you said, this is reality. Jin Kazama killed my sister.I could never forgive him for if I had a million years. 'Cause when Jin killed her he killed me too. This body's all that's left."

"I don't believe that."

"Believe it."

"But I don't. I think you when you say he killed you too, what you mean is that he took everything you cared for away from you. Now he's all you got left. And when you die killing him you'll be free."

"Thanks a lot, Sigmund Freud," Miguel snarled.

"And you're afraid to get closer to Asuka because that'd be like setting yourself up for the exact same thing to happen again."

"Just shut the hell up."

"I'm just sayin'."

"Yeah, you've done a hell of a lot of that in the last five minutes."

To his surprise, Miguel found that his head was in his arms. He waited for the ninja to go on, but there was just a merciful silence. When he realised Yoshimitsu had stopped at just the right moment he gave a silent thank you.

"Now what about that whisky?"

* * *

Three checkpoints. Three awful pauses as the lorry stuttered to stillness.

Leo swallowed and looked around the interior of the lorry. He had tried already to compare this mission with the last- perhaps it would help his anxiety- but, coming now to a halt for the third and final time, he saw that really there was no comparison whatsoever. Last time had been like vigilantism- a roguish adventure in which a band of heroes broke into a secret facility and escaped, leaving no trace. Now it was a military venture and no mistaking it. Next to Yoshimitsu- unnervingly quiet- sat three other Manji ninjas, all of them armed to the teeth. From their weathered features it was clear all were veterans, probably killers as well; yet even they shuffled, indulging nervous ticks. Afraid.

On his side of the truck were Miguel, Asuka and Lars. They were silent; they didn't even exchange glances. Of all of them, Miguel was the only one not obviously frightened. Somehow that was unsurprising, yet Leo couldn't help wondering what they were even doing here. What could they be thinking to put their lives in the hands of that snake, Bruce Irvin?

When the Thai kickboxer had abruptly reappeared at the base that very evening, badly beaten and insisting he was ready to go through with his deal with Lars, Yoshimitsu hadn't hesitated to take him back. Why that was, Leo couldn't fathom. Bruce was a servant of Kazuya- why would they even begin to trust him?

"He's our only chance."

Those had been Yoshimitsu's words. He was witty by nature, but when his tone became humourless it was unnatural and frightening. "I told you Ieyasu could charm a rattlesnake," he had said, "but these people are vipers. And this is a war. They won't make compromises. Trust me- if you're surrounded by snakes, then your safest bet is to hire a snake yourself."

Some comfort.

Bruce's voice could be heard now, though not individual words. Occasionally Ieyasu- in the front to 'keep an eye on him'- would speak up, but mostly it was just Bruce, his hiss of a voice sickeningly indecipherable. Around him, the team made a third and final check of their equipment, taking particular time over the GPS devices that the Manji party had provided- tiny computer screens that showed the relative location of each of the other devices. Adding them to the arsenal had been a risk- if any of them were killed or captured, one device would lead them to everyone. But Lars and Yoshimitsu had decided it was a worth the danger to ensure they knew where the others were. Leo noticed the alertness of everyone else and tried to make a show of proof-checking his own gear with the same discipline; but he stopped when he reached the pistol.

It didn't matter anyway. A deadly silence had fell over them. Bruce had stopped talking. Yoshimitsu was sat bolt upright, tensed like a fox daring flight. For a full minute no one talked, moved, or so much as flinched. Bruce's voice didn't reappear.

Finally Yoshimitsu dared to look down at his GPS device.

"Shit."

Then again, fiercely. "Shit."

Leo glanced at his own device. The little green dots that represented Bruce and Ieyasu could clearly be seen- moving away from the checkpoint and towards the facility.

"That snake has given us in!" Miguel whispered furiously. "I warned you about him-"

The Spaniard fell quiet suddenly as the sound of service-issue boots echoed around the lorry, moving for the doors.

Leo experienced the sensation of imprisonment like a hammer blow- he sat back shaking, struggling just to keep quiet, as the image of bullet holes riddling their metal box returned with terrifying potency.

Fortunately Yoshimitsu was more controlled. He motioned to one of the Manji ninjas and together they waited, tensed, at the doors.

Abruptly the fullness of night flooded the lorry and made the little overheard light seem dimmer; in a millisecond the two guards- essentially outfitted thugs- had opened the doors to receive a savage kick from the ninjas. They dropped to the tarmac without a sound. Silently cursing, Yoshimitsu clambered out the lorry, followed by the three Manji ninjas, than Lars, Miguel and Asuka. To his relief, Leo managed to disembark without being sick.

"New plan," said Yoshimitsu, dragging the first of the thugs into the checkpoint booth. "I'll take Lars and the ninjas and we'll go ahead and find the tech. Miguel, Asuka, you two follow after Bruce and Ieyasu, but hold back if there's security. He's not worth getting killed over. That said the attention will probably be on us before long."

Leo swallowed as he dumped the second thug in the booth.

Yoshimitsu turned to one of the ninjas. "Kabuo, you stay at this checkpoint. If anyone turns up- which they will do when the guards change- give us a head-up and then get the hell out of there. Got that?"

Kabuo grinned. "Of course. I'm not one to turn down an easy job."

"Just don't fall asleep," said Yoshimitsu dryly. Then, turning back to the others, "So does everyone know what their doing?"

"You shouldn't have trusted him," said Miguel, glowering. "Any fool could have predicted his betrayal."

The party was tensed- expecting a reply. Yoshimitsu returned Miguel's stare.

"He got us in. I didn't expect anything more."

And that much couldn't be disputed.

* * *

Miguel stopped abruptly, swearing as he held the GPS screen closer to the light.

"Their devices are off. They've gone."

"Huh?"

"Check yours. They're gone."

Asuka checked her own and, sure enough, the two dots that had represented Bruce and Ieyasu were nowhere to be seen.

"What do we do now?"

Miguel hovered for a moment, making no attempt to disguise his enmity for Bruce, the one he had always known would abandon them. Asuka, watching and waiting, wondered if, given the chance, he would give his life to take Bruce's. Surely not…

"We could-"

She was interrupted by a gunshot, distant but unnaturally loud in the cramped metal-and-concrete corridors. Then another, freezing the two listeners to the spot. Silence filled the gap for thirty seconds before they began to relax.

"It must be Bruce. Only he would have reason to fire."

"We don't know that," said Asuka, a little shakily. "They could have been found by some guards."

"Who fired two shots at them and then stopped? Not likely."

"But if it was Bruce, that probably means…"

"Yeah."

They stared to walk, cautiously at first but soon becoming hurried. Ahead of them, the corridor rounded a bend and an open door leapt into sight.

Bruce stood amongst several rows of shelves piled with red-filled tubes. He was packing syringes into a rucksack along with tubes of the red liquid. At his feet was a faintly smoking pistol victim, Ieyasu, lay nearby, his death-frozen expression showed at the same time shock and a kind of confirmation of suspicion- he had known this would happen. The bullet holes in his chest suggested there had been no surprise about the murder.

Asuka looked first at the body, then at the racks of sickly red, then to Bruce's suspicious darting eyes as they fell upon these intruders on his business.

"What is this place?" she whispered.

"It's Kazuya's blood," said Miguel without looking round. Then: "Don't get your gun out yet. We don't know if we can afford to kill him."

His eyes were fixed now on Bruce- they glared at each other with a kind of long-awaited enmity. Miguel had a crazed expression about him- his jaw was locked tight and his lips curled, like some murderous avenging angel. Bruce was unmoving and silent as a snake.

"I knew it would come to this. I knew this would happen."

Miguel started to advance into the room.

"I never trusted you for one moment, Bruce!" he snarled. "You were always a snake, and now you've killed like a cold-blooded beast. I should have done this the first time I saw you. Fight!"

Bruce's darting eyes flicked to the gun on the floor- Asuka and Miguel saw the move and started forwards.

"Let me leave and I won't kill you too," he breathed, his muscles coiled.

"Don't try it," Asuka hissed. "Don't even think about it."

Then Bruce was moving, leaping across the floor, his hand whipping for the gun. Bruce was fast- fast as a dart- but Miguel grabbed the shelf of vials and with a roar brought it crashing down.

The noise was for a second deafening. Dozens of glass tubes shattered into brilliant red rubies and scattered in all directions, coating the floor. Amidst it and despite horrendous slashes, Bruce leapt up.

The gun was between them.

Move!

Asuka rushed in and as Bruce leapt she had a millisecond to kick the weapon across the room. In fury Bruce tackled Asuka to the ground and she screamed as she fell on the glass; Bruce got in several savage chops to the face before Miguel could grasp Bruce by the shoulders and drive him directly into his outstretched knee. Bruce gasped in pain but swung out like an animal, and Miguel slipped on the blood that had now coated the floor, almost losing his footing.

That was all the time Bruce needed to grab the backpack and rush for the door. Asuka had her gun in her hands now as Bruce cleared the door and made for the bend of the corridor. To her surprise, the thought of killing another human being was barely in her mind as she took steady aim.

**Hope you'll forgive the endlessly long wait, not that you don't have other things to do, of course. Anyway I'm on holiday from 24****th****, but other than that it's the middle of the holidays, so I swear on my Elvis portrait that I'll update regularly. **


	14. Line of fire

****

So I'm back from a lovely holiday in Turkey and am I browned at all? No. Genuine steak tartare. No tan whatsoever. That's factor 40 sun cream for you. Anyway, on with the story.

* * *

Disclaimer: Own nothing. Making no money.

There was a lot Miguel couldn't understand about those few seconds. It was as though the pulse of time skipped a beat, leaving everything distorted, out of place. It took him long, torturous time to find his bearings.

He was still in the lab. He had been fighting Bruce. Bruce… the liar. The snake. He remembered Bruce Irvin and found that his eyes focused a little, and his ears rung less. A pain, like needles into every part of his body, began to recede. He forced himself to stand, sending clouds of dust rising from his clothes. Finding his feet, he looked down, to find he had lay amongst rubble. Behind him, the eastern wall and half the ceiling had ceased to exist; slabs of rubble lay in heaps and blankets over the room, and everything was covered with a thick coat of white, chalky dust.

What had happened? He struggled to think but his mind wouldn't focus. Nothing would focus. Had there been… a bomb? Think back. He remembered Asuka aiming the gun.

Asuka.

Asuka.

"Asuka!" He called her name by instinct as he scrabbled in the rubble.

"Asuka!"

Then he glimpsed the blue of her dusty clothes in the wreckage and was at her side in an instant. A feeling of frenzy had overtaken him. For a minute he thought he was delirious, because the sensation of being back in the ruins of that church was as real as when it happened. Pulling some smaller chunks of rubble off of Asuka's prone form, he saw himself instead pulling away limestone and scaffold; and as he worked he saw through the eastern wall, not the barbed wire fences and the buildings of the city, but the fallen church bell, cracked and dirty. And when the gunfire restarted, uncomfortably close, he heard instead the knelling of that bell.

Somehow he had been re-dealt the same injustice. It had all happened again like clockwork. He turned her over and her face was stone white. His heart froze and he couldn't check her pulse because his hands shook so violently. He nudged her clumsily and she didn't move. It was like fate. It had to be fate.

Then she coughed.

The change was instant, indescribably instant. Miguel felt a wave of relief stronger than any drug. He reached out a shaking hand and touched her face and she shuffled slightly. His fingers came away covered with plaster, revealing warm, living flesh. That was like the same experience again, like discovering she was alive all over. After a space of time that felt like seconds, but must have been longer, her eyes opened.

"You're bleeding," she said, watching him, almost sleepily.

"Must have been the explosion," said Miguel, not even checking.

"Thought you'd died on me," he choked.

She was still semi-conscious but that didn't stop her grinning.

"Are you crying?" She asked.

"No."

"Sure?"

"Of course not. Don't be stupid."

And he hugged her. He had to. He hugged her tightly, his head buried in her shoulder.

* * *

They lay for a little while without a care in the world, as though the noise and the rubble and the gunfire was just a dream, or a scene from a news bulletin that didn't concern them. Finally the illusion could survive no longer. Miguel helped her to stand. She was obviously in pain, but didn't look seriously injured.

"Take as long as you want," Miguel said. He had ceased to worry about the danger.

With some difficulty she leaned against the wall.

"What do you think happened, anyway?" she asked.

Miguel shrugged but looked around anyway. "Only an explosive could do this much damage. Maybe an artillery shell?"

At the sound of ever more frantic gunfire Asuka tilted her head. "There does seem to be a bit of a fight going on." Then she chuckled to herself. "Why are we talking like it's a thousand miles away?"

"Maybe we've just got used to it," Miguel offered. He found he was grinning. "Anyway, we better leave."

"Can you see my gun? I dropped it. And it sounds like I might need it."

After a few minutes of inefficient search Miguel recovered the gun. A thought occurred to him.

"When you aimed at Bruce, Asuka… did you ever actually fire?"

"I can't remember," she said, coming over. "All I remember was the sound of the explosion."

Miguel released the clip. All nine bullets were still there.

That meant Bruce was alive.

Miguel's lips tightened involuntarily. "Why didn't I just kill him on sight? I should have. I should have shot him like an animal." Now there was a wild darkness in his eyes again. For Asuka it was like seeing him for the first time again, cold and unreachable. "If I had just killed him you would never have been in danger."

Almost scared, Asuka put a hand on his arm. "I did choose to come," she said. "I knew what I was getting into."

"But why?" returned Miguel impulsively, "_why_ are you here? What could make you want to become part of this war, this endless violence?"

She looked away. Miguel immediately relented. "That was stupid of me to ask. Please forgive me."

She sighed. "No, it's ok. I don't mind saying. You know my surname? It's Kazama. Jin's my cousin. That's the reason I'm doing this. I need to get to him. I need to. Just to ask, at least. And if I can stop the killing, I will. But at least I need to know why."

"So you're throwing yourself into this war in order to meet it's greatest general?"

"I guess so."

"All for the hope of just talking to him?"

"Yes."

Miguel looked down at her, suddenly very sad, almost ashamed. When he spoke it was almost like he was talking to someone else, someone a million miles away.

"What you're doing is crazy."

"No more crazy than you!" she said bitterly. "But that's the thing. My whole life people have told me that. Whenever I break up fights, or end up in them. You're crazy, Asuka, you're crazy. Or when I entered the King of Iron Fists. People say, 'she must be crazy'. But lots of people do these things. You're doing this. You're in no less danger than me. Why is it crazy for me and not for you?"

"Maybe I have less to lose," he said softly. She didn't answer, so he went on: "Besides, you still have a choice about this. This isn't the ending for you, you see what I mean? But I'm afraid it is for me."

She looked at him with a flare of something like defiance and remorse in her eyes. "Really? What do you want then? What's so important to you that you don't think you're mad to be trying for it?"

"I…"

With a start Miguel realised the reality of his intentions. Looking down into Asuka's eyes was like rediscovering his path from a whole new perspective- the eyes of an observer, a witness. The shock was like a needle of ice, carrying a very real sense of being petrified, frozen. How could he tell her he wanted to kill her cousin?

"I…"

She shook her head. "You don't have to tell me."

"You told me," he heard himself say. The feeling of separation was torturous now, separation of his own thoughts. He couldn't say, he couldn't, yet he was compelled to just the same. "You deserve to know. It's only fair."

"It's not tick for tack," she chided. "I don't mind not knowing. I trust you."

Miguel smiled humourlessly. Trust. It surprised him that his eyes didn't give him away. That she could trust this secret at all was astonishing.

"We need to leave," she went on, as the crescendo of gunfire began to creep up again on its unpredictable pitch. She took her gun from his numb hands.

With air of authenticity that could only be developed on the streets, Miguel composed himself. He waited until she was some way ahead and followed her out of the ruined wall.

Finding the others after that was easy once they realised that Miguel's GPS device was still working. The truck they had arrived in was waiting for them just where it had stopped. Yoshimitsu and Lars were in the front; they found Leo stretched out in the back, a bullet wound through the ankle. Opposite him lay two bodies covered in shrouds.

"Those were the guys we recovered," said Yoshimitsu to Miguel grimly. "Somehow there was an attack we didn't expect. MFE guys. Jin must have known about this place. But why now?"

The latent anger in his voice was almost frightening to Miguel; it reminded him of himself, of the anger and hatred he always carried. Now he saw that Yoshimitsu had seen people killed on his missions before, he couldn't understand how he had failed to notice the similarities between them. They both had blood indirectly on their hands.

Asuka had gone to comfort Leo. It was the second time she had done, and Miguel thought about the fact that a kid like him was never meant to be in such a situation. Did he have a hope of surviving the outcome? How many more innocent people were there in his and Yoshimitsu's line of fire?

* * *

Miguel did not return to the HQ. For three days immediately following the raid he severed all contact with the others, devoting himself solely to the pursuit and killing of Bruce Irvin. It felt good. Despite having barely a shred of information to go on, the task was mentally very easy for the Spaniard. Hating Bruce was somehow better than hating Jin, less consuming. True, Bruce had betrayed them whenever he could; he had insulted them all, and Miguel especially; he had killed Ieyasu and indirectly caused the death of three others. He was a monster and a liar, a self-absorbed, amoral psycho. For all these things Miguel hated him, and felt unshakeably justified in planning to kill him. But it wasn't the same as his plan to kill Jin, because that- and he knew and felt it in his heart- would involve surrendering his own life. Jin's crime against him justified that. Bruce's crimes didn't. So at least, after this, there would be tomorrow.

Meanwhile, after days of blind alleys and hopeless searching, Christie asked Lars once more to help her. She hoped he would go with her, taking a bare minimum of personnel and resources, and break into a Zaibatsu lab. It needn't be a high-risk venture, she pointed out, because the whereabouts of her grandfather was probably not data of a very high confidentiality, and thus would be easily accessible from the main Zaibatsu database. Lars, after all, had once worked for Jin, and even though the passwords and firewalls to crucial info would have been reworked, it was unlikely that the MFE had gone to such trouble and expense at all levels of its systems.

Lars told her no. She was wrong. Jin had used her grandfather's whereabouts to blackmail Eddie, a vital player in his underworld game, and that was more than enough reason to keep the intel heavily secured. Besides- and more importantly- he couldn't spare anyone, not even for a second. After all, he and the Yoshimitsu's Manji party had barely a week to make preparations for the very real possibility that, if Kazuya won the King of Iron Fists, barely a week away, and became the sole leader of the militaries of G corporation and the MFE, they would have to resort to immediate, open, lightning war. If that failed, Kazuya's conquest would be unstoppable.

Miguel also was frustrated. If Bruce was master of anything, it was surviving, and he had disappeared completely without a trace. The days ticked rapidly away, and with the tournament reopening on Friday he was forced to return to HQ, defeated and frustrated, thinking about Jin again. He ate something, then slept for six hours, waking just in time to wish Asuka good luck in her match- her safety, after all, was assured by the fact that he would be miles away.

Two hours later he went to the rendezvous point for his own match. There were no reporters and they fought in dead quiet, with just a referee, and a single armed guard. Two Manji ninjas followed him and helped keep watch, but he never saw them. After fifteen minutes he won, barely standing; Marshall Law was easily the best fighter he'd faced yet, technically skilled, fast, unpredictable and capable of reading a match like a textbook. Ironically, however, it was this that let him down. Anyone could tell that he was a prince amongst martial artists, but Miguel wasn't a martial artist, he had learnt what he knew on the street and improved it without refining it. So Law, normally so shrewd and knowledgeable, had nothing to compare Miguel's moves, his general fight dynamic, against. It was a type of match he was completely unused to and, if it hadn't been for that, he would have won. Looking, back, Miguel guessed that if he had actually been formally trained, he would never have even made it past the qualifiers. He grinned at that. All of that unnecessary struggle had finally paid off.

* * *

There were no reporters for any matches, that night. Just scores on sheets. No-one knew or would ever know how many poorly regulated matches went ahead. But naturally this made no difference. A fighter was a fighter. He turned up and he won. Logistics were for others to worry about. Asuka arrived to her meeting point to find only a referee and a score card.

Her opponent, arriving late, didn't bother to warm up. Asuka was a little offended. He noticed and laughed.

"You're insulted by my confidence? Don't be. You should be honoured that you are about to face Heihachi Mishima."

"Whoever you are, I'm not going easy on you just because you're old."

The Mishima smirk began to curl his lips. "No problem."

He took a heavy stance. "Since there are no journalists or spectators, I hope you will agree to a truly honourable battle. These tournament regulation matches bore me. The only real way to know someone is to fight them without rules- no quarter asked or given."

**Hope you like. Reviews please. **


	15. Jin Kazama

**Things will finally pick up here, and- though you never thought it would happen- Jin is going to appear. Hope you enjoy! Also, big sorry for the previous chapters, which I've realised have no breaks in them. For some reason takes them out when I upload. Hmm. **

**Disclaimer: Don't own anything. **

* * *

By the time Miguel returned from his fight, it was very dark. He was exhausted, beaten and not a little irritable. In the tiny underground entrance passage to the HQ he found Lars and Yoshimitsu. With them was a short, bald man with thick glasses and ink-covered fingernails.

"What's happening?" Miguel asked, a little annoyed that anything should be happening at all. He needed to sleep. Unfortunately something in his tone must have annoyed the old man, who stared irritably at him as though he were an insolent and particularly stupid child.

Almost in retaliation, Miguel added, "And who's this clown?"

The old man raised a brow. "Is this a friend of yours?" he asked Yoshimitsu.

"Don't start up again," Yoshimitsu snapped. "Just don't. We can't afford to. Bosconovitch, I mean it, listen to me-"

"This is Bosconovitch?" Miguel was on his guard by instinct. "What's going on here?"

"It's Asuka," said Lars. "She was wounded fighting Heihachi tonight."

Miguel started. He had to repeat the words to himself for them to sink in. "Where is she?" he demanded, then, again, "Where is she? Let me speak to her!"

"I have a medical team with her now."

"Let me see her!"

Bosconovitch had turned away from the Spaniard and continued the conversation from before he had arrived. "Your best chance is to induce a coma," he said. "We simply cannot risk treatment unless her vitals are more stable."

"So you want to put her in a coma!" shouted Yoshimitsu over him. Lars said something but it was drowned in what was increasingly a battle of volume.

"Tell me what's happening?" said Miguel again, furious now at the shouting, the lack of organisation. Yoshimitsu went on talking to Bosconovitch. "If she goes into a coma now she could be out for weeks or months. What if we have to move bases? Could her body take the shock?

"Doesn't matter," said Bosconovitch cuttingly, "I've told you this is her safest chance for survival. You used to trust me on medical matters."

"I trust you," said Yoshimitsu, and as though in approval they quieted a little.

"What about if we treat her without the coma," said Lars, "what are her chances then?"

Bosconovitch shrugged. "Maybe one in ten."

"This is insane," Miguel hissed. A thought occurred to him. "What about the stem cell tech?"

"Keep out, Miguel," Yoshimitsu warned, "You don't know Bosconovitch. I do. We can trust him."

"But Lars still has the technology taken from the labs in East Asia. Why not use it?"

"We've been through this," Bosconovitch cut in. "The formula is not ready for use on a human- especially a human in Asuka's condition."

Miguel stared at him in disbelief. He already hated Bosconovitch; somehow he'd always known he would. He hated his lab-rat attitude to the world, his almost sadistic desire for test and experiment.

"Bullshit," he hissed. "You're telling me that for the duration of this war you haven't saved a single life! You're no scientist."

"Don't be angry with him," Lars interjected.

"Quite right," said Bosconovitch testily.

"I have a right to be angry!" Miguel snapped. "Everywhere we go people die or get injured. I haven't seen us save a single person yet, despite what you all claim as your intentions."

He turned to Bosconovitch. "Can't you at least try? Surely it must be better than putting her in a coma."

Bosconovitch shook his head. "I'm afraid it's simply impossible. Even with time to perfect it, I would need to administer a perfect dose to ensure safe healing. Otherwise the stem cells would become cancerous."

"You must be able to do this." Miguel insisted. "You must."

The grating of the doors threw them all abruptly into silence. They looked up into the light of the entrance and there stood a woman of mechanical beauty. It was as though all the compromise present in a normal human had drained out of her long ago, leaving her skin icy, her hair blonde-white. She walked directly towards them in confident strides and paused about ten feet away. In her right-hand was a small metal device, something like a mobile.

"Who's this?" asked Miguel to the others. Yoshimitsu wore a droll expression.

"Looks like a hot chick," he said dryly, "but whoever she is, I don't think she's supposed to be here."

Bosconovitch nudged him. "It's Nina! I remember her. She was the test subject for my cryogenics treatment."

"You're right," said Yoshimitsu- then cursed. His unease put them all on edge. Miguel couldn't remember the change, but he was already tensed for battle.

Nina held up the remote in her hand and spoke slowly and calmly.

"Listen carefully. I have against my thumb a pressure control, which, if released, will send out a radio signal to all MFE units in the vicinity, detailing my exact location- in your base. Fortunately I have not been sent to eliminate you. I have been sent to collect Miguel Rojo. Is he here?"

Despite everything that was happening, Miguel had to admit he was a little impressed. Back in the street life in Spain, this was a power that people craved. Even after a lifetime of hardship, there weren't many people with the balls to just waltz into a place like she had every right.

He took a step forwards. "That's me. What's going on here?"

"Jin Kazama wants to see you."

What did she say?

He tried to focus but it was like his mind itself had been muted; he couldn't think a single word. He stuttered.

Nina, unimpressed, beckoned with a nod of the head. "Come with me."

Miguel started forwards in a daze. He had to go; there was no question.

"Careful Miguel, it could be a trap of some sort," said Yoshimitsu; but he seemed to know there was no stopping him. Anyone could see that if it were a trap it would already have been sprung. With their hideout discovered they were as good as captured, or dead. Miguel knew this in his instincts, but it wouldn't have mattered if there was a risk. He had to go now. Nina, apparently sensing this thought going through all their minds, smiled thinly.

Miguel turned back briefly to Bosconovitch. "I haven't forgotten Asuka," he said simply. "I couldn't. So I want you to do absolutely everything in your power to save her. And I truly mean anything."

* * *

In the street a small convoy of cars was waiting. Miguel climbed into one and Nina got in next to him.

They sped off. Nina watched him as they drove with a thin, icy smile on her thin lips, as though all his tangled and powerful emotions were like an abstract painting to her. He barely noticed her in return. He found he was calming now. He'd prepared for this moment so long that, now it seemed to be happening, he operated on a kind of second nature he'd kept stored up inside. In what felt like no time at all they arrived at the Mishima tower. It's massive height reared over them. At the peak, squads of stone gargoyles were just visible, crowning the top storey, keeping silent vigil over the city. Nina, now joined by a pair of heavily armed MFE troops, led him straight through into a massive entrance hall. Here she gestured to him to follow and, with the guards close in tow, they passed swiftly into an elevator tucked in the corner of the hall.

The elevator opened into a tiny waiting room with big windows on the left side; they passed straight through here and into Gargoyle's Peak, the top storey of the MFE building.

It was almost a cathedral, Miguel thought. Everything about it felt weathered and tired, as though its traditional, grandiose features had long ago wearied of all the violence and vengeances carried out beneath it. There was nothing to suggest that it was really the most important room in a company. It felt more like a religious hub than a business one; a nerve centre from which all the veins of its empire were spreading over the world. Miguel, standing on a huge glass window in the floor, looking down through the dozens of storeys, shivered with the sense that he had reached the dark centre of a vast and secret empire. Here was the source of every evil the MFE had perpetrated, the source of his sister's death; all traceable to that one young man, right in front of him, sitting before a desk on a risen platform over the centre of the room.

Jin Kazama, the man he had hated for so long, was seated only metres away.

For at least a minute Miguel could feel Jin staring down at him from his seat. In the soft light, Jin's face was in shadow, but his head was slightly tilted, resting in his hand, suggesting something like curiosity. A driving rain had picked up outside, beating noiselessly, in sheets, against the heavy-duty safety glass of the windows. Occasionally lightning would flash, the roll of thunder barely penetrating the windows and colouring the silence. It was like they were old nemeses that knew each other perfectly.

"Miguel Caballero Rojo."

"Jin."

No sooner had they exchanged introductions than Jin's expression turned to boredom. Yet there was something like a scowl in it too- just the slightest furrowing of the brows. It was as though just hearing Miguel speak had predicted for him the whole conversation, and how it would pan out. He waved a hand and the guards disappeared back out the room. Nina stayed put.

"I suppose you want to know why it happened," Jin said, leaning back in his chair.

Miguel glanced at Nina long enough to see the holstered pistol and the knife strapped to her thigh. He was so close now. How fast could she be?

"Reason for what?" he asked warily.

"For the war, of course."

Miguel flinched in his place, his fists tightening. Jin must have noticed for he smiled condescendingly.

"Wait a second. You got time. I know you want to do something hasty, but I should tell you: I know almost the whole story. And another thing- I know who will win the King Of Iron Fist Tournament Six."

The Spaniard forced his fists to unfold. This was impossible. But he had to at least know why. Hadn't he been preparing himself all these months to fight Jin, to _die_ fighting, but always with the knowledge of why?

It was like Jin was reading his thoughts and nodding along to them. "Still listening? Good."

He went and stood by the window overlooking the city; the rain lashed the pane inches from his face.

There was a brief silence.

"Guessing ahead yet? You're impatient. Maybe you have a right to be. But like I said, I know the winner of the King of Iron Fist. And I can tell you right now- it's not going to be me." Jin turned back from the window, his hands clasped behind his back. It was almost possible to imagine him as a businessman now.

"I tell you this," he went on, "because I believe that for all your efforts, you have at least earned the right to know why you are here, and why all this is happening around you. I also need you to help me. Nina believes you will refuse, but we'll come to that later. For now, let me explain the reason for the war."

"There is a temple. I don't know where, but if I don't find it the human species will come to an end. The war was a means of driving Kazuya out of hiding."

Miguel blinked, half patronising, half enraged. What game was Jin playing with him?

"Why?" He challenged. "Why would you need Kazuya for that?"

"Kazuya knows where the temple is."

"How could he know?"

"Devil told him."

Silence returned. Jin had turned back to the window and stared distantly out once more- the rain threw an artwork of white colour over his dark, perceptive face.

"I don't know when Devil revealed its source to him," he continued finally. "It could have been long before you or I were born. I don't know why either. Probably it had a secret agenda and Kazuya just never had the opportunity to secure it for it. Maybe it was just arrogant. But either way, Kazuya knows, and he will never forget. I must find out."

"Sounds to me," said Miguel vehemently, "As though you're just insane."

Jin looked back at him and smirked, suddenly bearing a resemblance to his father that Miguel hadn't noticed before. The smirk was exactly the same- a corner of the mouth smirk, cold, perceptive, darkly amused.

"You can believe whatever you want, and decide for yourself why I would want to lie to you."

"Why would you do all this to me for the sake of a temple?" Miguel challenged. "You could have just declared the next tournament, and fought him there like all your predecessors."

"To what end?" Jin countered. "If Kazuya won, he would have everything; if he lost, nothing. Either way, he would have no reason to tell me. No. Only by offering him the whole world could I draw him out."

Miguel snorted. "In that case you cannot win the tournament, can you? If you do, you have the world but no temple. You'd have to lose to him for him to have any reason to stop you destroying the world." He laughed suddenly. "These are the justifications of a madman."

"I said I knew who would win the King of Iron Fists," said Jin softly. "I said it wouldn't be me. I meant it. Maybe you think I'm mad, but I can see that a madman's answers are just the ones you wanted to justify your own pitiless hatred."

"It doesn't make sense. You are a rabid dog for the killing."

"More excuses!" Jin cried, sweeping from the window again, "but after having met Kazuya you can never see things in quite the same light again, can you? I think you believe my story."

Miguel took a step forward suddenly- so suddenly that Nina went for her gun and dagger at once. Jin looked down at the Spaniard with the old curiosity that he seemed to swing to and away from. Miguel stared up at him in furious disbelief. If Nina approached one more step he felt certain he could snap every bone in her body in seconds. Somehow Jin had found a way to make him hate him even more. It was impossible.

"If you are telling the truth, then it's like you never planned to win the war," Miguel hissed.

Jin shrugged as though it were any other business question. "I thought about trying to win at first, but the idea faded on me. I would still not have the whereabouts of the temple, even if I defeated and captured Kazuya. I considered using torture in that event, but can you imagine Kazuya under torture? He's barely human enough to feel pain."

"So you never planned to see this through? This whole war was nothing but an instrument to elevate Kazuya to his current position of power. It was… _a lie_. A global lie, costing my sister's life?"

"Correct," said Jin shortly. "Along with thousands of others. I had to choose between a generation under Kazuya or a lifetime under Devil. Rest assured it took little thinking out."

"You keep talking about Devil like a person. You can't blame this war on a gene!"

"I don't. The war is my responsibility. I started it, and the truth is… I enjoyed it. There's nothing in life sweeter than to do the unthinkable. But believe me, Devil is not just a gene. It is… a beast. It is something inside me in a way not even Kazuya has ever experienced. It is pure power."

Jin had sat down again now. He was wearing the Mishima smirk.

"Do you believe in demons, Miguel? Kazuya was inhabited by one. Something of its essence he passed on to me but… it changed. It is so much more powerful in me. Perhaps infinitely powerful. But at the same time it lost its form. It is no longer a demon, more like a parasite, clinging to me, living off me. I am the host to a formless spark of chaos- the most powerful, and the most uncaring force on earth. Further than that I don't know."

"It doesn't matter about that."

Under Miguel's shirt, his collarbones heaved like blades against the fabric. A nerve in his locked jaw twitched. His fists closed up and tightened until the veins pulsed and the knuckles were white. He stepped forward.

Nina was visibly unnerved.

When Miguel spoke again he had to force every word out from his grinding teeth. "If this is true, then tell me. Am I right in my deductions? That y sister died in your raid for nothing but a lie. She died so you could _ascend your father to that very throne you sit in_, and all so that he, and not you, would end up as the tyrant. Is that right, Jin? Is that quite right?"

"It is," Jin said. "But that doesn't matter. Your sister was a nobody."

"Which is why you killed here," hissed Miguel, nodding, "because to you she was a nobody. To you she was an object like everyone else. Another strand in your lie."

He took another step toward Jin and barely felt Nina put the dagger to his throat. If not for her, he was sure he would have killed Jin already.

"You know I only entered the tournament to kill you," he said abruptly, matter-of-factly.

"Of course I know," Jin scoffed. "You want revenge. Many people in this tournament want similar revenge for similar nobodies. Apart from that there are a few who want money. Apart from those two, why else would the King of Iron Fists exist? Which OF the tournaments was ever instigated for something other than the lure of money and revenge?"

"You deserve death."

Jin seemed bored again. It could only channel Miguel's anger. He'd forgotten the whole world.

"Ah yes," Jin said, "The concept of deserving. Justice. Eye for an eye? What is that? How can we explain justice outside of revenge?"

Miguel went to speak but Jin went on over him. "But I'm tired of this now. I brought you here for one very simply reason. I know you have Dr. Bosconovitch. I want you to bring him to me."

Miguel stared at him in open disbelief. "Why would I do anything for you?"

Jin folded his arms as though it were a business meeting he was hinting needed to finish. "Because if he dies this stem cell technology can never go ahead. Without him Kazuya remains just a man."

"So you would kill him too, just to ensure your twisted version of success?"

"Exactly! And in return I will grant you this- the chance to fight me. You won't win the tournament. You face Heihachi next and he will probably kill you. Failing that, you could never defeat Kazuya. But bring me Bosconovitch and I will fight you that very moment." He smirked. "Over his corpse."

"I'd never work for you," cried Miguel, "never as long as I breathe! You are nothing but a liar and a murderer. Now you've let me in, one of us cannot leave this room."

The Mishima smirk was full on his face- after all, the history of its development lay in these moments. "You would say this even if working for me gave you the chance to defeat me?"

"Yes."

"I'll kill you before you've even moved," Nina breathed, one hand on her gun.

"What about if you worked for me, killed me, and then went on to win the tournament?" Jin went on. "You could end the war."

"It makes no difference."

"I suggest you take a few steps back," Nina said.

Miguel didn't even look at her.

"You are positive?" Jin asked again. He was curious again.

"Of course. Yes. I mean everything I say." He turned to Nina. "Move back or die."

"We'll see which of us dies," said Nina in her icy voice; but there was sweat on her brow.

Jin alone seemed calm. For an instant, through his anger, Miguel thought of the beginning of the conversation again, and the way Jin had almost predicted the whole exchange. The head of the MFE leaned back in his seat. "It seems," he said thoughtfully, "that you may be almost as single-minded as me."

He shook his head sadly, then returned his attention to Miguel.

"What about this?" He questioned. "Imagine I could stop all the violence, _and_ stop Kazuya's rise. Imagine I could. If I asked you to work for me in exchange for all this, _and_ the chance to fight me, would you work for me then? Would you even do one job in my name?"

"No," said Miguel instantly, "As long as I am this man I could never work for you. You are my opposite in every way, and I despise you more than anything else I could imagine despising."

"Hmm," said Jin thoughtfully, "I thought so. Hatred is a selfish emotion. We are selfish as ever."

He stood up suddenly and opened a drawer in his desk. "Nina," he said, "leave us."

She stared at him incredulously.

"I mean it. Go."

For a minute her ice-statue composure was shattered; but only a minute. Sheathing the dagger, she spun on her heel and walked away, indifference in every step. Jin was reminded that she didn't give a single cent whether he lived or died.

From the drawer he produced two red gauntlets.

He jumped down into the centre of Gargoyle's peak. "You said you wanted to fight, Miguel, so we will. You will have your chance to kill me now. But I'm afraid you've wasted it."

"We'll soon know," said Miguel, collected now, and taking a stance.

* * *

**You like? Reviews please! **


	16. Judgement

**Back again. I said I'd finish someday or another. Anyway, onward we go. After months of training and fighting, Miguel has his chance to defeat Jin Kazama and complete the only mission he ever thought he cared about.**

**Disclaimer: Don't own anything.**

**

* * *

**

Jin was stepping in closer and closer. His fists were up, and he moved with the nimbleness typical of any fighter. Miguel began to pace left cautiously. The bruises of his earlier tournament fight against Law, only hours ago, were already making themselves known, leading him to wonder just how long he would be able to fight. There was an inexorable quality to Jin's slow advance, to his stance and form, to everything about him, that was deeply unnerving.

Miguel bit his lip and kept pacing. As long as he paced, he was confident Jin wouldn't move in to attack, because they wouldn't be facing each other directly; and that meant that any opening move could be easily dodged. They were stalemated.

He started to flex his muscles. The opening attack was crucial, because the body still wasn't warmed up properly, and was therefore liable to be slower. He needed a good opener. But where _could_ he open?

Jin looked like he'd fought a million battles and seen every combo ever thought of. There wasn't a chink of fear or uncertainty anywhere. They hadn't even started yet, but Jin already gave an impression of a veritable wall of steel, whereas Miguel was nervous and convinced it showed. How could he open the fight against that mentality?

He thought about his sister suddenly, and what this man had done to her. The aching of his bruises rapidly receded. Now he remembered his reason for being there, he was surprised he hadn't thought of it earlier. He stood up straighter. Jin's spell seemed to be broken. But by now he had paced so far that they had effectively swapped places, with Miguel now directly in front of the raised section where Jin's desk was.

Jin straightened. "Are we going to fight, or just circle each other?"

"Fight," said Miguel fearlessly. He put up his stance. Now that the nervousness had passed he was angry at ever feeling it. This was his sister's murderer! He had waited for this.

"You know I'll kill you." he said.

Jin smirked. "So many people have said that to me."

Miguel started to advance. Jin paced in again. And there it was! The same nervousness he'd felt before. It couldn't be natural. It couldn't.

He thought of all the times he'd prayed for this moment to come. Now it was here. But something wanted him to fail besides Jin. A shudder ran through him at the feeling. It was like there was a second man in the room. A man with a gun trained always on his back, toying with his life, considering whether to kill him or not.

The feeling was so strong that his eyes darted momentarily around the room.

That was all the time and distraction Jin needed.

He moved so fast that his feet barely seemed to touch the ground, and suddenly Miguel was blocking desperately. He stepped back from a bone-crunching hook, but barely blocked the left-hand blow which came in faster than he'd thought humanly possible. Then another, left, right, inches from his face and pounding his forearms to pulp. He could see the knuckles in his peripherals, but other than that it was like blocking shadows appearing from nowhere. He forced himself to step back again, anticipating the crunch of the blow he'd let through, but it never came. Instead, Jin pounced into a scissors kick. Miguel blocked the first, but then Jin's left foot connected with his chest. Miguel hit the ground and tumbled, gasping more out of shock than force. Jin's kick had landed before his other leg had even touched the ground again.

He stood. "You're incredibly fast." He had to say that. He'd been a street fighter. There was always a tiny touch of respect.

Though only for the fighting style.

"But I'm still going to kill you."

Jin was waiting with his stance ready. He hadn't broken a sweat.

* * *

The fight went on for twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of concentrated hell. That's what fighting Jin was. He was relentless and implacable, never slowing or making a mistake, just attacking with steady, constant, unpredictable blows from a select but lethal range of combinations. Miguel amazed himself every second with the fact that he was even still standing. He could only guess how much faster he was moving than at the beginning of the tournament; because Jin's speed was inhuman.

But that wasn't the biggest problem. Miguel had always thought, maybe anticipated, that in killing Jin he would die as well. He'd known his opponent would be fast and strong. He was the King of Iron Fists. But he hadn't expected the presence of that gnawing feeling in the back of his mind that there was someone else in the room, following his moves and threatening, always threatening, to shoot him in the back.

"You know it makes no difference that you denied my offer," said Jin calmly. "I can always find someone else who will bring Bosconovitch to me."

He started to advance but Miguel circled, eager for a breather, keeping Jin's desk between them.

"Tell me these other people's names and I'll pass on the request," said Miguel coldly.

Jin smirked. "The request has already been made."

Miguel shook his head, feeling that intense hatred that he'd felt so long surge back into his chest. "You won't win. Even if I fail to kill you, there are so many who will take my place. You can't escape judgement."

"Judgement!" Jin roared with laughter. "You've here for _vengeance_! Where would humanity be if there were such a thing as judgement?"

Suddenly he kicked the table forwards, and it slammed into Miguel with gut-wrenching force. Before the Spaniard can react Jin had leapt across the table, pouncing with ferocious speed and precision, catching his opponent squarely in the chest. Miguel fell heavily. One jaw-shattering blow. Two. A tooth came loose. Furiously Miguel arched his back and catapulted himself to his side. Somehow he shifted, though moving against Jin's tremendous strength felt like every tendon had snapped and coiled. Clutching Jin's left knee he managed to force himself to a kneeling position- but Jin slipped through his hands as though he were water, fighting closer and- before Miguel had imagined possible- had his arm clasped around the Spaniard's throat.

Jin's grip was like a woodman's vice and, just like that, Miguel felt all his breath giving out. Instinctive panic threatened to rise but he went on struggling for at least half a minute to force himself from the floor from under Jin's wall-like strength. Nothing would give. The sensation of choking overwhelmed him. He clawed desperately at Jin's arm but it was like trying to move steel. Jin's face was emotionless in his peripheral vision before black dots in his sight blotted it out. He started to fade and couldn't think what to do.

In his tortured mind vague images began to flash, fast and elusive. Despite the pain, his thoughts, though meaningless, ran smoothly and without fear. He wondered if he could really die in this tower, where he could see all, and none could see him. He wondered if the fires would ever stop in the city right below them.

He wondered if Jin would ever die, if anyone could strip him of his godlike amoral power; and when he thought that the hatred he had always borne surged out and became stronger by the second.

Releasing Jin's arms entirely, Miguel felt one second of unimaginable horror as Jin put every muscle in his body into his choking grip- then he was free, striking at Jin's knees and arms and face with his fists and forcing him to let go. Miguel staggered, gasping, but there was no respite coming. He blocked a wide swing before receiving a uppercut to the gut. A cold metallic pain began in his stomach and spread through his torso. Then a spinning kick caught his chest, and maybe he dodged backwards but it wasn't enough to stop him falling. His head hit the missile-proof glass of the window behind him.

He could barely see anything. There was a divide now between his mind, which hated Jin more than ever, and his body, which pleaded for respite. He didn't know whether to get up and fight till he died, or stay down and beg for mercy.

Then Jin pulled him up, leaning him against the window, and slammed his knee into Miguel's stomach. The pain was unbearable, inhuman, more than any flesh and blood should be able to deliver. The Spaniard collapsed, subdued. He couldn't fight now. He couldn't. He was a murder victim.

"Haven't you, got a gun or something," he mumbled; blood dripped from his lips as he did so. Jin took no notice, swinging again for Miguel's temple. Out of sheer survival instinct he dodged, leaving Jin's fist to connect with the glass.

There was a tremendous whipping sound, like breaking the sound barrier, and the window seemed to implode, glass converging and hurtling out into the darkness of the night. Instantly there was noise and wind and crashing thunder. Rain splashed into the two fighters. Jin recoiled, cursing, his knuckles bleeding. Miguel had collapsed sideways and lay very still.

For a moment these two fighters were locked in those positions, staring back at one another, trapped in an inexplicable reverie. Jin sensed that something had changed; Miguel knew that nothing had, and neither was willing to reach the end without deducing the meaning of these curious feelings.

Finally Jin picked up his adversary and relocked his choking grip around his throat. Somehow Miguel struggled free, but that was all he could do. His body had nothing left; he collapsed again.

Three times more Jin picked Miguel up with his choking grip, and three times more Miguel defied possibility by breaking free, only to collapse helplessly. The rain was picking up, the thunder reaching a crescendo that made the gasps of their fight utterly silent. Upon being repelled a third time, Jin roared furiously and brought his heel down across Miguel's back. There was a dull crunch, disguised by the thunder; Miguel screamed and arched, then went still again.

"Look at you," Jin snarled, "Look at you fighting for your life! To think you came up here with ideals. You wanted vengeance. You believed it a passion unique to you; you had lost your sister and felt that no force could stop you. But now your strength only comes from fear of death, the most common feeling of all."

Miguel stirred but didn't raise himself. Jin watched with disgust, then saw he was eyeing the shattered window.

"No way," Jin said. "No passionate end for you."

Then he locked in the choke again, keeping his knees firmly locked to prevent himself being pushed. Miguel's broken body convulsed and strained against the grip, tears coursing down his bloody face, but again he broke free. This time Jin slammed his heel down against the back of Miguel's neck, producing a blood-curdling scream, then before Miguel could fall, brought his other foot up into the Spaniard's throat, silencing his cry. This time he fell and barely seemed to breathe.

* * *

Miguel had never played dead in a fight before. But then he had never been in so much pain that, contrary to what Jin had said, death had become a wonderful thought. Perhaps that was where he found the strength, when Jin locked in his choke for that final time, to push the winner of the King of Iron Fists just those few steps over the edge of the shattered window, and send them both plunging into the rain.

Yet it was a disgusting type of revenge. He couldn't help think that. Even as his death fell closer and closer he couldn't help think how appalled he was that he had resorted to such a move. To kill Jin by this means… he had never pictured it in all his hate-filled dreams. It had supposed to be a revenge that proved something.

This feeling, however awful it was, was short-lived. Tossing and tumbling one over another, Miguel began to feel the nausea of falling, and his broken and exhausted body finally yielded. His eyes rolled back. For a moment there was a flash of glorious whiteness right before his eyes, then he was asleep.

* * *

Miguel lost consciousness ten storeys from the ground.

At eleven storeys the white wings had ripped from Jin's back; tattoos wrapped over his body and he became Devil. With a single sweep of its unnatural wings it halted their fall.

For a moment, it hovered. Clasped and hanging from its clawed hand was Miguel, and Devil held him up in his grip, remembering with awe and contempt the fight he had just witnessed from behind Jin's eyes, and how he had predicted with relish the inevitable conclusion. Then he released Miguel and watched his body drop into the shadowy darkness of the streets.

**Do you think it was a good idea to cut the fight short like I did? I felt it could become repetitive… agree? R&R please.**


	17. Devil

**Still here, holding on as ever. A-levels are hard and not very interesting. Also I'm working on a Mirror's Edge Fic of about 10-15,000 words, and also a DBZ oneshot, in case anyone's interested.**

**Brief overview: Miguel has unexpectedly been given the opportunity to face Jin Kazama, his sister's killer, in one-on-one combat; but Jin's transformation into Devil means his loss has been for nothing. Meanwhile, the tournament continues in only three days. And the fight for control of Tokyo rages on into the more distant streets. **

**Disclaimer: Own nothing. **

**

* * *

**

Devil was free! The explosion of the senses onto his mind was exhilarating. With a shriek of joy, Devil cartwheeled up into the sky on white wings, the cold rain buffeting him. The air lifted him up as if in fear; the Demon revelled in his unnatural lightness as he went higher and higher, the city shrinking in size and expanding outwards beneath him. Finally the tips of his wings touched the lowest sections of cloud and he was able to look down upon the city as a whole.

For the most part Devil was apathetic. From his height the city was grey and dark and lifeless. But in some places there were little fires burning in individual buildings, hissing in the downpour. With his augmented hearing, Devil could also make out the endless gunshots that violated the air.

The violence of these things was amusing- too amusing to ignore. Calling up the energy within his blood, Devil focused, and unleashed a massive blast of power. Unnatural and terrifying, it split the air like a whiplash as it sped on its downward course, before tearing into a row of houses. Instantly they erupted into fierce, smoky flame. Focusing his energies again, Devil prepared himself to release another blast.

After some time Devil tired of his play. Picking up speed again, he rocketed upwards through the cloud layer on supernatural wings, going faster and faster until he surfaced above them. Here the air was cold and pure on his grey human skin. Then he dived back into the centre of the storm clouds and flew through them directionally, revelling in the feel of damp and static that had been denied him so long.

He flew for many miles, travelling faster than any natural force could allow for. Eventually he began to grow tired of the clouds, and descended.

Below him were vast ranges of wooded mountains, the tallest capped with snow. Devil listened, and with his power of hearing could make out every individual animal's yelps and cries, and the falling of every pine needle. These did not interest him, however, and he focused in for the sentient sound of human speech. There it was! Following the distant sound, Devil's eyes focused on the outpost tucked into the hillside. There were men there, walking to and fro- he could feel the heat of their bodies on the cold landscape, and distinguish the whites of their eyes in the darkness. Most were gathering in the outpost. Others- they were all evidently loggers- were just returning through the forests, some driving trucks laden with timber.

Interested, Devil flew closer until he was only a hundred feet from the mountain, and hovering well within sight. For now, his silent approach went unnoticed. The loggers continued their evening routine, oblivious. Ignorant of their deaths, Devil thought. How small they were! Despite the rising feeling of hatred in his chest, Devil held back. It amused him to watch them playing their social games, laughing and mocking when they felt they were supposed to, but always stopping short of their imaginary boundaries. It was a war, Devil thought. They were all engaged in a quiet war; and this they did as naturally as the growing of the trees they logged, willing travellers on an inescapable path of normality.

Hmm. Normal. Devil had no conception of such a thing as 'normal.'

For a little while he went on toying with their lives in his mind, listening to them drinking coffee and talking amongst themselves. Then he focused his power and unleashed a wave of energy on the nearest outhouse.

Under Devil's unnatural fire it went up as easily as the houses in the city. In less than a second the outpost went from a cold, coffee-drinking workday to a roaring inferno. Any screams or cries from the workers were drowned out by the snapping of wood and the shattering of glass.

The men were practically in tears with shock. What amusement! Only Devil was thinking of how they had been seconds ago. Normal. _This_ was normal! As normal as that. Apparently they thought it must be an accident. But how could they?

But of course, they knew nothing of Devils. They stood around in the clearing shielding their eyes against the fire that was quickly roaring through the forest.

Devil decided to land now. The men noticed him and a ripple of something like fear spread through them like a current. Gradually, the flame forgotten, they crowded round him in a half circle, with those at the back pushing forward, and those at the front pushing backward.

Curious yet afraid. Devil grinned as he watched them. It was true, no man is convinced of something until he has seen it, indeed _touched_ it. They wanted to touch his wings and learn if they were real. How else could a person convince himself of this demon?

One man stepped forward. Devil cocked his head slightly. It was a man called Gregory- Greg – by the others. Devil recalled that just a few minutes ago he had been talking about his wife. But whereabouts would she live, Devil thought. These men are all so alone up here.

"Are you… human?"

Greg took a step forward. Devil raised an arm and pointed his hand at him.

For a moment Greg was rigid, then he began to flail wildly. Rapidly these convulsions increased until he was being wrenched around like a grotesque puppet, as one by one his limbs bent out of shape. Then his neck twisted with a crunch to an impossible angle, and he dropped to the dirt.

The crowd of loggers now looked truly horrified. Devil thought they had accepted reality now. There was proof. A few started to edge towards the opposite side of the wood to the fire, planning to run; Devil set those trees ablaze too.

Now the two fires in the woods on either side were twenty feet high. Combined with the moon, their fierce glow through triple shadows over the Devil figure and his terrified onlookers. To him they were now indistinguishable from animals. He waited until they began to scatter, then, revelling in the stench of burning, took to the air on white wings and began to dive upon them one by one.

Meanwhile, the fire reached the final outhouse, sending fragments of wood spitting and splintering into the air. Now that it had spread that there was nothing to see but fire and sky for a mile around.

* * *

"We'll have to leave."

It was him. The voice.

"What else could we do? Tanya, there's nothing else for it."

The voice was soothing, like hymns in old churches he vaguely remembered from America.

He remembered the accent in America and smiled. What a curious thing. The man spoke again and Jin thought he sounded American.

"I don't know. I guess we'll wait and see. What else can we do?"

* * *

Jin was only awake for a few seconds at a time. During those brief moments his mind retained the vaguest feelings- generally rough scratchy sheets, and that confusing man with the accent he thought was American. Then he slipped back into tortured dreams.

They were tortured dreams, it was true; but they weren't nightmares. Because Jin didn't have the mental discipline of the demon-thing he knew as Devil, the experiences of his body whilst Devil controlled it filtered through to him as something like what dreams were, but vaguer, less clearly fictional.

In his few seconds of wakefulness he rubbed the scratchy sheets with what little movement he could muster. The faint maybe-American accent was still going in his ears, but for all he really knew it could have been nothing but a dream of his tortured mind; everything he was thinking could be a dream, whilst Devil continued to kill and maim; and there was no way Jin could think of to find out.

There were two faces in the candlelight. As they peered closer the single tiny flame painted shadows into every recess of their drawn, pale faces, with eyelids droopy almost from shock and lack of sleep.

"At least he's alive." That was the woman.

"We need to wake him up. Tanya! Don't be stupid. We can't just wait around."

The American accent turned to him. Jin had closed his eyes, ready to sleep again. It felt like such a natural state that he didn't know how to resist it, though he dearly wanted to reply.

"Can you hear me, mister? Wake up."

He was aware of a faint pressure on his shoulder; much fainter than was usual. His tongue moved ever-so-slightly, and suddenly his mouth felt very dry. He tried to part his lips for water, but sleep seemed to sneak up on him and suddenly everything was gone, and he was back in his dreams.

* * *

Out of darkness, five red figures were the first to materialise, luminous and jarring. They read 4:32AM. It was an old digital clock.

Gradually other objects and furniture appeared, seeming to grow out of the darkness that was everywhere except in the tiny flame from the candle and the red numbers: the bedside table the clock was resting on, the bed, the walls, ceiling, door. A landscape painting in charcoal hung on the wall directly opposite him. There was no sound whatsoever but the tingling of his nerves.

"How long was I unconscious?" he asked, to no one. His tongue was swollen and sore, his throat so dry it was like choking on mercury. The pounding in his head was fierce, but at least expected.

It was all a comedown from the drug of Devil.

On this occasion it felt so fierce that his words came out as meaningless sobs through the pain.

He wanted to black out again.

No. No way. Not back into the semi-dreams, where Devil could be real again and him just a ghost. No. Get up Jin. Move around. Don't sleep.

His muscles tensed and finally moved. Slowly they stretched, but it was like wading through petrol. He managed to get one foot out of bed, then, at length, the other.

"Is anyone awake?" This time he managed to form words, but it was still torture to his throat. He would have waited for someone, maybe the American, to come into his room again, but the feel of the soft bed beneath him was such a temptation that he had to get up and move around or fall back to sleep. He noticed his clothes looped over a chair and made for them before his body could protest.

The fabric of his shirt in his hand brought back vividly the fight with Miguel, and with it a storm of questions. To him, it was the very last thing he had ever done, or could remember clearly; right up to that appalling moment of transmutation, when he experienced just for a second the psychedelic madness of viewing the world from behind another person's eyes, from behind Devil's eyes. But between then and now could be- how much time could it be? There was no way he could know.

Perhaps it was these thoughts, but suddenly he was seized with a fit of trembling. At first it was bearable, but it quickly worsened until he was shaking so violently he had to sit down on the bed, doubled over and groaning in pain. Finally it passed, leaving an aftertaste in his mouth even worse than the dryness, and an immense sense of weakness.

There was a towel over the end of the bed that he grabbed and looped over his shoulders. The comfort that afforded was so little that he laughed aloud. Still, he was up. The CEO of the Mishima Zaibatsu had made it out of bed. He laughed again, and almost forgot about the shaking. Then he quickly forced himself to stand. For a moment that, like everything he did, was torture, but it quickly calmed and he began to feel something resembling normal again. He took one faltering step, then two steps, then three, and made it out of the bedroom.

The bedroom opened directly into the living room, which was mostly in darkness. The only light source was from the fireplace, where a woman in her thirties was kneeling adding logs. An armchair, near to his door, contained another middle-aged man, fast asleep. Several blankets were wrapped over him. Seeing this made Jin aware of what was in reality a bitter cold, and he started to shiver again, wrapping the towel tighter over him.

He took a long, faltering breath, then forced himself to say "do you need help?"

The woman started and looked round. For a second she just stared at him, wide-eyed and seemingly torn between anger and fright. Then she hurried over to the man in the armchair.

"Don't!" said Jin. He held up a placating hand. "There's no need to wake him for my sake."

"Darryl ought to know you're awake," she said defensively. "He'll want to leave as quick as possible."

She too had the accent, but Jin couldn't seem to remember her.

"How did I get here? Where am I?"

"Canada," she answered.

How had Devil flown so far? Jin drew a line in his head from Tokyo to Toronto, trying to picture every city in the path of that line. There was no way of knowing how long he had been in Devil form, or how many settlements Devil had stopped at.

She was looking at him now, standing there shivering, and Jin snapped out of his thoughts. "Are you warm enough?" she asked tersely.

"I am cold," he admitted.

"Come over here by the fire."

Obediently he sat by the fire with her, the warmth spreading over him like a tide of relief. The fire was the only light source in the room, casting his face and torso in a bronzy light. Jin studied his hands, golden and smooth as they were in the firelight. There was no sign of any struggle ever having occurred, nor any indication anywhere on his skin that he had once been a Demon.

"Do you know?" he asked suddenly.

"Know what?"

Those words were like a distant song reaching his ears- she hadn't discovered what he was.

But he went on with a lie.

"Do you know what happened to me? I can't remember anything."

"We found you in the outpost. There was a fire… a terrible fire. Darryl will have to explain that later… I really ought to wake him now. He wanted to leave as soon as you woke up. Our electricity went down with the logging post, so no heating or light, and it can only get colder up here this time of year-"

"What's your name?" Jin asked.

"Tanya," she answered quietly. "Now I really have to wake Darryl. Stay here where you'll be warm."

Tanya got up to go to her husband, leaving Jin to ruminate by the fire. If they were in the mountains he had to assume that Devil had flown up here. And if Devil had started the fire in that outpost- and Jin suspected he had- then there was a touch of cold irony to the situation, since even now he was enjoying the warmth of a log fire, burning with timber from the very place he had destroyed…

Darryl and Tanya didn't know.

* * *

**Hope you liked. R&R please.**


	18. Jin

**Okay, sorry for the constant delays. The ME fanfic is almost totally done, about 1,000 words left to write maybe, so I'll post that soon. Hope you're still following and that you appreciate the Jin-centred chapter.**

**

* * *

**

Darryl was immensely happy that Jin had awakened- almost, Jin thought, unjustifiably so. Did he not appreciate the scale of what had happened? Jin thought he was just eager to escape.

"We'll leave as soon as it's light," he announced. "Once you've had something to eat."

Jin felt his hunger as soon as Darryl mentioned it. He hadn't eaten in… how long? He felt abruptly weak; the effects of becoming Devil had never been this strong or long-lasting.

Following them into a small dining area with a simple wooden table and chairs, Jin took a seat thankfully.

"You were unconscious three days," Darryl went on. His Canadian accent had taken on an almost comforting ring to Jin's ears; he sounded somehow like an intelligent and peaceful man.

From a cupboard the Canadian produced a tin of powdered eggs. Then came bread, butter and jam, and a glass which he filled from the tap.

"Still got a little water left in the pipes," he explained. Then, whilst Jin ate ravenously from their meagre stock, he went on to explain what had happened. Tanya and he had spotted the blaze in the outpost very quickly- they were only a mile away from it- but by the time they got there the place had been utterly ruined, the fires mostly burnt out. It defied belief. They searched the outpost itself but found no one alive.

"Everything was burned," said Tanya forcefully. "Everyone."

_Clever Devil_, thought Jin. _So clever. But why not kill these people too?_

"We were looking for a mobile we could use to call outside help," said Darryl. "We don't own one, you see. We came up here to escape all that."

"But then we saw a shadow approaching out of the forest. It came a little way towards us and collapsed. It was-"

"Me," Jin finished. "But hold on a minute? You said you came up here to escape 'all that.' What did you mean?"

They blinked at him. Tanya was in Darryl's arms, curled against his shoulder. It looked almost unnatural, the way they clung to each other.

"We wanted to escape the war," said Darryl, "What else could it be, you know?"

"Of course."

"So we came up into these mountains and threw away our phones, TV, anything else to contact the outside world. And now we just live up here, paying a little to the loggers to use their generator, but otherwise… just going on being normal."

_Unlikely,_ thought Jin, and started to wonder if Darryl and Tanya were coping with what had happened as well as it seemed. At length he asked if they were both alright.

"Yes," they said instantly.

Jin heard 'No.' There was something about this couple that made his instincts rebel immediately at the thought that they were contented. After all, they had run up here to escape the war, and for Darryl that probably meant escaping conscription too. And now they were going to have to leave again, for his sake, to get back to society and tell people about this tragic fire. How could they be happy when they were always seeking refuge?

Darryl had disappeared from the room. Jin asked Tanya where they were going to head for, and she told him the name of a village, which he instantly pushed to the back of his mind. It didn't matter. All he needed to make his escape was a phone. Then back to Tokyo.

"Darryl!"

Her voice was so shocked that Jin stood up. Darryl was standing in the doorway holding a small metal object. It was a wireless radio. Jin smirked, and sat again.

"How could you, Darryl?" Tanya cried, oblivious to Jin's amusement. "You said we'd left it all behind!"

"I couldn't resist just this one thing."

"But what about forgetting!"

"We can still forget, sweetheart."

Forgetting, was it? Jin sat there wondering what they were trying to forget, vaguely aware all the while that his thoughts were becoming more and more detached. His whole situation, he realised, was funny. It was almost like being a spectator on the real world. He sat there watching these two meaningless people bicker, unaware that they bickered in front of the most powerful man in the world. How fond he could grow of them, given time.

Then through his thoughts he heard static, then a voice. He looked up and saw that the radio was on.

"Reports state that fighting continues in the streets of Tokyo," droned a voice in English. "As yet no details are available, as the city is almost entirely off limits and considered extremely dangerous. Police are advising anyone in Tokyo at the moment, or with relatives in Tokyo, to make arrangements to leave as soon as possible…"

And so on, into the meaningless cautions about safety and leaving and so on, as though they weren't in a war but merely an extended protest. Tanya and Darryl were sitting round the table, listening intently. Jin switched off for a bit, still feeling tired.

"I think he must have sold his soul," said Tanya suddenly.

"Who?"

"Jin Kazama."

Jin laughed involuntarily.

"Something wrong?" said Beatrice.

"Nothing."

The radio was droning on about war in China.

"What is it they say about a villain's life- nasty, brutish and short?"

Jin smirked. That was a Hobbes quote, but incorrectly applied.

He agreed with Tanya anyway. "Except," he added, "that the misery the villain suffers is never in proportion to what they inflict."

"We have God in Heaven for that," said Darryl.

"You mean the Devil in Hell," Jin retorted, but regretted it.

"Are you not a believer?"

"No."

"Why?"

Jin sighed; the tiredness felt physically heavy now. He wondered if he was still being influenced by Devil. If so, then the comedown this time was far longer than ever before.

"You don't have to discuss it," Darryl said, after they had been silent for a little while.

"It's okay," said Jin. "I'm not use to holding conversations."

Tanya raised an eyebrow.

"I used to be in… a position of authority," Jin explained.

"Lawyer?" she asked, with mock disgust.

"Judge," he said, grinning back.

"You do seem like… a very sad individual," said Darryl at length.

That statement was inexplicably riling. Jin, so used to holding his temper, glared. "You a preacher?"

"No. Sorry."

"It's okay," he said, not feeling it. "I just think human madness is indecipherable enough, without introducing divine madness as well."

"You believe we're just mad?"

"Isn't that what you believe too?"

It was a stalemate, or something like it. Jin felt himself retreating inside again. He lowered his head onto his chin and Darryl, taking that as an end to the discussion, turned his ear back to the radio that was still feeding into the room.

* * *

Fortunately for Jin he was similar in size to Darryl, a little shorter but more muscular. That meant he could fit into Darryl's old and unused clothes; which he would need, for the trek down the mountainside. The nearest village was a day's hike away, what with the vehicles at the lodge having all been wrecked. The weather was chilling, but Darryl assured him that if they waited around it'd be no worse than the house would be, unheated and without water, in a week or two's time.

Besides, they needed a phone. Whether or not they were hiding from the war as a whole, they felt an intuitive sense of fair play- a catastrophe like what had happened at the outpost couldn't stay a secret, hidden in the mountains. It was natural, it was right, that someone should have to uncover the charred corpses. For that, they needed a village and a phone.

To Jin, of course, it didn't really matter. Once they were into town he was just a plane ride away from returning to Japan across the pacific. It would be a long flight, and secretly he detested just the thought of going back, but of course there was no other way.

* * *

On the mountainside that morning, Jin found it in him to apologise for his irritability when the radio was playing.

"I'd already forgotten it," said Darryl jovially. "Though now you ask, I was kinda surprised."

"By what?" Jin asked.

"The God question. Nowadays people usually ask me why I _do_ believe."

Jin smiled wryly. "I won't ask you that. Like I said, human madness is indecipherable. I'll ask a different question, if I may. Why did you save me up there on the mountain? You had no idea who I was."

"I figured it was more important to help you than know where you came from. You know, it was more important."

"But I could have been from a strike team. Or a spy. Or any other kind of shit. How could you know."

"I was willing to risk that," said Darryl.

"Even in an international war?"

"You're forgetting," said Tanya. "Up there on the mountain, there wasn't a war."

"I'm afraid that there was, Tanya. I'm Japanese by the way, in case you were wondering."

Darryl nodded seriously. "I guessed you were East-Asian."

"As though that's an achievement," said Tanya, grinning.

* * *

As it turned out, Jin hadn't been far off when he asked if Darryl was a preacher. In fact, he'd been raised as a strict Quaker in the USA. Jin wondered if his disappearance to Canada had been an escape from that too; not that it wouldn't have helped him during the war.

"You know about devotion, then?" Jin asked.

"Actually I'm not sure that I do," Darryl answered. "But go ahead anyway."

"I wanted to ask you about devotion to an action. I believe that once you've done a certain number of things- performed a certain number of actions, created a certain number of causes, so to speak- the outcome becomes a direct result of how far these actions are carried. In other words, it's impossible to turn back, because the outcome will be worse than the origin."

"Sounds to me like you're denying change."

"Only specific change. Change in the face of inevitability, you might say."

"Well, people change, Jin."

Jin shook his head. "No, they only imagine change."

Darryl frowned. "In that case, I'm not sure that I can help you. Anyway I'm not the person to ask, with all the running away I've done."

He grinned, intending it as a joke, but Jin was lost in his thoughts.

* * *

In the centre of the village they found a phone booth, stone grey and covered in dust, a genuine antique.

"Here you go, Jin." Darryl handed him some change. "Take as long as you need."

Jin nodded and stepped into the booth. He had been eager to get on, but suddenly, staring at the fat round buttons, and the wired-up receiver, he stopped, one hand poised to close the door. He laughed.

Tanya frowned. "What is it?"

"Nothing," said Jin, grinning. "It's just been so long since I've had to make a call on anything like this."

"I'm just sorry us village people can't live up to your expectations," Darryl laughed.

"On the contrary, you people have saved my life." Jin leaned out the booth again, his voice lower. "I mean it. Thank you for what you've done for me."

"No problem," said Darryl, "You'd have done the same."

Jin smiled sadly in reply. "You have too much faith in people."

"Maybe; but I think I'm right about you, at least. You're a good man. A really great guy. Seriously."

"Thanks."

Jin leaned back into the booth, and closed the door, thankful for the silence and the abrupt end to the talking. Glancing out of the corner of his eye, he could see Darryl waiting patiently, with a warm, assured smile.

He dialled.

"Hello?"

The iciness of Nina's voice could be felt even from thousands of miles away. She was so cold, almost machine-like in her every word, in her life as a whole. Jin knew that it suited him and, also, that it was not without a touch of irony. Nina's voice was a recording. He hadn't got through to anyone real- which was the intention.

"It's Jin," he said, slowly and clearly.

"The code?"

"Eternity."

"Your voice is currently being auto-identified. Please wait."

Twenty long minutes later, Nina's icy voice appeared again.

"Mr Kazama?" She wasn't overly emotional. "Where are you?"

Jin sighed, looking at Darryl.

"A village in Canada."

"Canada? You flew that far?"

There was a tense silence; it was strange to Jin to hear other people talking about Devil so openly. He'd never thought of Devil as being an authentic part of his life, but rather as a disease, a poison to be expelled. Nina, so coldly indifferent, clearly thought otherwise.

"I suppose Devil must have," Jin said, "but- hold on one second."

Darryl had opened the booth door. "You gonna be long?" He pointed across the street. "Tanya's already coming up with the police. They want us to take them back up the mountain."

"Don't worry," said Jin, containing his annoyance, "I'm fine here. You go on with them.

Darryl nodded once, seemed to step away, then wavered. Jin, who had just put the receiver back to his ear, suppressed an irritated glare.

"What's happening?" Nina's voice was just a whisper next to his ear.

"You sure you don't wanna come?" Darryl seemed sad; almost pleading. "We could go back up to the mountain and stay there, once it's been fixed up. We'd be free. And it's good to have someone to talk to, someone who'll disagree with me from time to time. Tanya and I, we're really too close for good conversation, if you know what I mean."

He laughed shyly. Then, hesitating, he went on, "The thing is that I just don't understand you Jin. Surely, you can't really want to go back to that war."

Nina's voice again before he could answer: "Who are you talking to? Are those civilians, Mr Kazama?"

"What do you think?" Darryl asked. "You sure I can't persuade you?"

"I'm busy at the moment," said Jin.

"Can't you just hang up the phone?"

"No."

"Go on!"

"Leave me alone!" Jin said suddenly. Darryl started, then stepped back.

"I'm sorry if I offended you," he said quietly.

"You didn't," said Jin, almost apologetic. "But I need to finish this call. Can you close the booth?"

It felt like Darryl waited a long time before complying.

Back in the booth, Jin wiped the sweat from his brow and leaned against the phone box. He felt tired again, tired to the core. Thoughts of choppers and guns and Nina hovered in his mind like wasps, stinging him. He wanted to sleep, but he forced himself to get back on the line to Nina.

"Who was that?" she repeated. "Civilians?"

"Yes," Jin admitted.

"You need to pick them up, Jin. No telling what they saw. Or what you told them in your sleep."

"They don't know anything, Nina; but you're right. We'll take them with us. But they've got police here and they'll be back in the mountains by the time you get over."

"That, sir, is not a problem." Jin could almost imagine her thin smile.

"I'll take one of the Blackbirds," Nina went on. "Once we have the coordinates of that booth I'll be there in a few hours. Are you alright until then, sir?"

"I'm fine, Nina" Jin said wearily, "do it."

"Anything else?"

"What day is it?"

"Friday. The third round of the King of Iron Fists starts on Sunday."

"Thank you. That's all." He sighed. "I've got some explaining to do now."

He hung up. Outside the booth, Tanya and a few police officers were talking to Darryl. Jin decided there and then that it would be better not to say anything until the helicopters arrived.

* * *

**Hope you liked! Back to Tokyo next chapter. **


	19. The Tournament Accelerates

**So it's been ages again but at least this time I have a reason- my Mirror's edge fic, 'Run for Freedom,' is finally complete and posted.**

**Disclaimer: Own nothing. **

**

* * *

**

The last thing that Miguel Caballero Rojo saw was an image that would become immovably printed onto his mind.

It was the sight of Devil's white wings spreading as the Demon slowed in its fall, then soared away into the sky.

* * *

There was nothing in the world now but shadowy corners, receding into blackness, and the smell of lacquered wood.

Miguel stirred, opened his eyes. There was faint light from a metal grill in the wall.

He started; he was in a confessional box.

"When was your last confession?" a voice asked.

Miguel considered his answer carefully, drowsily. "I don't believe I have been to confession… for many years."

"I forgive you," said the voice.

His sister's voice.

"You could never forgive me," Miguel whispered. Unseen, his head tilted into his hands. "I failed."

"You are dying," her voice said. "I'm sorry for killing you."

"What? You didn't kill me. Don't say that! It's torture for me to hear _that_."

She was silent a moment.

"Come outside," she said.

"Why?"

"Just come."

Struggling and stiff-limbed he climbed out of the confessional. The cathedral he stepped into was taller and lonelier than the grandest cathedrals of Spain. Its many ornaments were wreathed in gold, and every towering window was an artwork of glowing stained glass. The altar, however, was more familiar.

"It's like the place you got married," said Miguel. "Not the building itself, but everything inside. I could have mistaken it for the exact place."

"I never got married," she replied.

"You are married in heaven."

"But you don't believe in heaven."

The Spaniard was tired. Perhaps it was the ever-breathing incense, and the candles, and the emptiness. There was a warm feeling of sleep in his breast. He made his way to the altar and stood beside her, thinking about calm sleep and dreams.

"You're dying," his sister repeated. Her voice was listless, ethereal. He knew she wasn't real. When he looked at her the hair falling across her cheeks would always block his view. He could see only a memory, hiding the blood and repugnance of her death.

"Is this a dream?" Miguel asked.

"Something like a dream."

"I could stay here happily forever."

She shrugged. "Who knows? Perhaps you could stay here in your mind while your body rapidly dies. You only have minutes to live. But minutes are just divisions on a clock-face, they don't mean anything here. I'm sorry I killed you," she added again.

"Why do you keep saying that?" Miguel shook his head despairingly. "It's torturing me. This wasn't your fault. _I_ killed _you_."

"That was just luck that our church was hit. Just luck."

"But thought about killing your fiancée. I wanted to do it!""

Staring at the golden cross above the altar, Miguel's eyes were suddenly blinded by tears.

"It wasn't you, though, it was me," she insisted. "You fought Jin for my sake. My memory has killed you."

"Why are you saying this to me?"

"It is the honest truth."

Miguel collapsed on his knees, his whole body fiercely shaking.

"You're not real," he sobbed. "You can't be. You're not."

He felt her looking at him, watching him with those blue eyes he could never see. He wondered if this ghost cared about him.

There were tears on his cheeks now, leaving marks on his face.

"Maybe I'm being punished," he went on, convulsively, "punished for thinking that your fiancée should die. I wanted to kill him, but Jin killed him first. And you too. So I tried to kill Jin. He deserved to kill me instead. He had the right."

"You don't want to die though. You're scared of it now."

He shook his head, crying, face in his hands.

"You've got something to lose."

Again he shook his head, but there was an outpouring racking his body now that couldn't stop. He went on crying, and talking through his tears.

"Why is the church so high?" he asked, to change the subject.

She told him it was a mental projection of the Mishima Tower.

"A hallucination can only divorce itself from reality to a certain extent," she said.

"Is this really nothing but a hallucination?"

She shrugged.

Miguel began to feel a little better. Somehow the aching he felt was soothed by a cool white light streaming in through the windows, filling the church. By degrees it grew brighter, and the brighter it got, the less Miguel wanted to talk, the more he wanted to listen.

But he never heard his sister's voice again, for as the feeling strengthened the white light flooded the room and surrounded everything.

* * *

Yoshimitsu awoke from awkward sleep, on a desk in the bunker, to the worst day of his life. It was funny, but he felt that it was the worst instinctively. In just two days, miracles had occurred; more than one. But it was the worst day of his life because he knew now, for certain, that these miracles were nothing but mockeries. The outcome of the war, and the tournament, were still inevitable.

For a moment at least he was alone. The whiskey bottle he had started with Miguel stood by him, and he picked it up thankfully.

It had started Wednesday night. That was two days ago, when Lars brought Asuka back from her match on a stretcher.

Heihachi had almost killed her.

For a full day she hovered on the brink of death. Twice she had to be resuscitated. As her condition worsened hour by hour, no one had held out for her survival.

Not that Yoshimitsu had witnessed any of this as it happened. Not trusting to fate, he had chosen to trail Miguel when he left for Mishima Tower. He had seen him plunge from Gargoyle's peak, locked in combat with Jin Kazama. He had seen Devil's white wings, like beacons.

Yet a miracle had occurred. Ironically enough, it seemed that Devil, by stopping his fall and then dropping him again, had actually saved Miguel from a drop that would have crushed his body out of all recognition.

Miguel Caballero Rojo had survived.

But it couldn't be for long. Yoshimitsu, with a medic team from his Manji party, had rushed Miguel back to HQ for treatment; but the ninja knew what fatal wounds looked like. Finally, after an hour of argument and despair, Miguel's vitals plunged, and he almost died.

It was at that moment, with any chance of recovery lost, that Dr Bosconovitch took the fateful decision to inject Miguel with stem cells.

That was two days ago.

Last night, he, Bosconovitch and Lars had stood over Miguel's bedside, watching the regular rise and fall of his chest. Then- and Yoshimitsu remembered it distinctly- Bosconovitch had let out a long, almost impassioned sigh. It was as though the Doctor were not in a medical ward in a bunker but in his own private operating theatre, staring down on some kind of custom Frankenstein's monster, the sweet personal fruit of all his efforts. Then the Doctor rubbed his hands together very slowly, replaced them in his lab coat, abruptly removed them again and leaned more closely over the bedside.

"His recovery is… truly remarkable."

"Will he live?" Yoshimitsu had asked.

"Most probably. Though it's hard to conceive, my hypothesis is that, rather than acting on a purely chemical basis, the stem cells actually concentrate over wounds. It is unprecedented. Their recuperative potential is even greater than I could have imagined."

Yoshimitsu was astounded. "When will he recover?"

"It could be any day."

"Any day? He'll be healthy? But that's impossible! How could he survive that fall and actually be able to fight again?"

Bosconovitch grinned amusedly. "He won't be fighting anyone. In fact, I lied when I said I know he'll live. The stem cells may have healed his wounds, but on account of my understandable lack of experience in this subject it seems that I have widely overestimated the dosage required. The stem cells that even now are healing him will be cancerous within the week, aggressively cancerous- and I don't know what his chances are like of surviving that."

The ninja shouldn't have been so surprised- he had seen enough of the world to know it wasn't fair- but this news came as such a shock that he couldn't talk, but only stare uselessly ahead.

It had all failed!

"I'll leave you to… whatever," said Bosconovitch without interest. Swinging on his heel, the old scientist left the room.

Lars was leaning in the doorframe. "This is bad," he said suddenly.

Yoshimitsu remained silent. He'd already known that, but hearing it from Lars was a double blow.

"I always knew Miguel was tough," Lars went on. "Ever since he outfought me in China. Even then I could see he would easily surpass us. And then he goes and survives this impossible fall. But it doesn't matter now because if he can't go on in the tournament then Kazuya will surely win." He sighed bitterly. "He might as well be dead. He's as good as dead once Kazuya takes command."

Yoshimitsu took a deep breath. "We'll just have to move to plan B. Attack him directly in Mishima Tower as soon as the tournament ends."

Lars nodded. "I'll try and smuggle some of my troops over from China in preparation for the strike. But given the fighting I'm not sure how easy it'll be." He hesitated. "You're a soldier, Yoshimitsu. Tell me- what do you think our chances are like? Because as far as I can see, our chances of storming Mishima Tower, the hub of the world's most powerful business, before they can get reinforcements in, are about…"

"Non-existent?"

"Yeah."

The ninja sighed, still staring at Miguel. "I'd say we got a chance. Slimmer than sliced ham it's true, but…" He paused. "I have an idea or two left. And besides, you forgot Jin. Jin could still beat Kazuya in the King of Iron Fists."

Lars shook his head sadly. "I'm not sure if Jin winning is better or worse. Does it even change anything?"

Yoshimitsu thought about the gruesome spectacle of the night before, as Devil rained fire down on Tokyo, and changed his mind. "It does change the plan," he agreed. "If Kazuya wins, we storm Mishima Tower. If Jin wins, all we can do is run for the hills."

* * *

"Yoshimitsu!"

It was Lars. The ninja groaned, then forced himself to sit up. Yesterday had been the worst day of his life. But something in Lars' tone gave him a premonition that today would be even worse.

* * *

Jin arrived back at Mishima Tower at 1.a.m. on Saturday morning. Watching him dock was almost a spectacle in itself. He stepped out of the jet without missing a stride, like it was just any other business trip. He hadn't been on the ground two seconds before he called for Nina to listen up.

"I need you to adjust the tournament line-up as follows: the quarter finals will take place _today_, at six pm. Then the semis tomorrow at twelve noon, and the finals the same day in the evening. Don't even listen to any complaints."

He hadn't broken stride; Nina arched an inquisitive brow.

"You want to end the tournament _tomorrow_, sir?"

"That's what I said."

They stepped into the elevator.

"Mr Kazama, is this necessary? The city will soon be back under our control…"

"This isn't about the city," Jin cut in. "This is about ending it all. I'm not going to wait another week for this damn thing to finish."

A thought flashed through his mind like a red-hot needle. The truth was, after his last transformation into Devil, he wasn't even sure if he had a week to spare.

"And get more troops into the city," he added. "I need Tokyo to be a safe zone in time for the final match."

"Mr Kazama, your forces are already stretched to breaking point; there's no conflict zone where we can afford the loss of troops-"

"I don't care about the conflict zones! Let the G Corporation have the zones if we can get more troops here."

They had reached Gargoyle's peak. Jin went straight to his desk and sat down, his hands going to the top drawer on his right. Nina waited, but Jin was in a hurry now, and didn't seem to pay her any attention. Finally he produced a small, dimly glittering metallic ornament on a chain.

He held it up to the light. Nina looked on, her normally indifferent expression showing just a hint of curiosity.

Jin smirked. It was almost the Mishima smirk, coldly arrogant.

"To just anyone this ornament is pretty worthless, but it's actually hiding a computer chip. State of the art. I had it built expressly for this purpose. This chip carries copies of all the primary files that go together to make up the Mishima Zaibatsu. In short, a copy of the whole company is on this chip."

Nina felt suddenly anxious, an emotion intensified by how rare it was to her. Quite without reason, her senses were screaming at her to look around the room, to check the nooks and crannies, and dark corners. She felt, inexplicably, that there was a second listener.

Jin must have seen her inattention. He leaned forward sharply and fixed her with a cold, unnatural stare that demanded attention.

"Listen carefully," he said, "because this order is the most important of all. As soon as the tournament ends, I want you to access the computer from the mainframe and delete _everything_. Every file, down to the last advertising brochure. I want you to destroy this company from the inside out. I'll give you the passwords."

Nina was aghast. "Why would you do such a thing?"

Jin was silent for a moment. He said, "Because this company has too dark a legacy. It can only go down from here, and I can't save it."

Nina's coldness returned, as it always did, with a vengeance.

"You sound unsure of your abilities, Mr Kazama."

"Actually I understand my abilities perfectly, not that it matters. I've made up my mind. When the tournament ends, you pull the plug."

"If Kazuya wins, Mr Kazama he will conquer all- with or without this company. He's too powerful to be stopped by something like debt."

Jin threw her a black look. "You shouldn't talk about Kazuya like you know anything of his character. Besides, this isn't about him." He held up the ornament to show it to her, then hung it over his neck. "I know you'll follow my orders Nina, if only because your payment will be the last the Zaibatsu ever makes… probably."

"Probably? I had assumed your plan to destroy the Zaibatsu was assured."

Jin was contemplative now. The whisper of his smirk was gone. One hand lightly touched the necklace. More to himself, he said: "however much I hate this company, I could never truly destroy it. It may be a legacy drenched in blood, but it's mine."

He looked up.

"Once you destroy the files, Nina, the computer chip in this ornament will be the beating heart of the Zaibatsu. Even if the company itself collapses, its soul will live on."

"So you have a reserve?"

"Yes. The reality is that as long as someone of the Mishima family exists, the Mishima Zaibatsu will exist as well. That's not something I can get around, so I thought I shouldn't kill the Zaibatsu completely. Don't get your hopes up though, because I'm still not going to win the King of Iron Fists. And then none of this will make any difference."

* * *

Hope you enjoyed. It should be obvious that we're at least three quarters through now, and approaching the proverbial beginning of the end.


End file.
